


La nouvelle vie

by revoluticn



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Be serious, Developing Relationship, Families of Choice, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, I am wild, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Smoking, at least I guess it's slow burn?, it is definitely slow burn who am I kidding, we'll see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:47:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 55,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24447568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revoluticn/pseuds/revoluticn
Summary: The course of life is altered by the smallest of things. Some call it fate, some call it luck – Enjolras calls it reality. It just so happens that his is changed in the spark of a flame.Slice of life modern AU.
Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac - background, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Enjolras/Other(s) - brief, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 122
Kudos: 152





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by La vita nuova by Christine and the Queens.
> 
> _I want you to touch me with your rage  
>  I want you to touch me with your fury  
> This is the renunciation of your shame  
> This is the glow, the new life  
> I want to make love to this song_

Enjolras breathes in shakily, frowning at the lighter he's fiddling with in his hands. He holds it up to the cigarette hanging from his lips and flicks the switch. There's a small flicker for part of a second, and then nothing.

“Come _on_ ,” he huffs, shaking the lighter vigorously before trying again. This time there's not even a spark.

It's a cool March evening and Enjolras is in the shadows of an alley, a minute's walk from the Musain, where he's due to meet everyone in five.

Taking a deep breath around the cigarette, he tries the lighter once more. Nothing.

A frustrated sound escapes his mouth and he feels tears burn in his eyes, raising his arm to throw the lighter at the wall. Before he can launch it, a hand flourishes a lighter from beside him, already aflame, lighting the cigarette.

Enjolras only manages a glance at Grantaire before he's distracted, taking a long, almost involuntary drag, breathing it out as he leans his head against the wall. He takes a second quick drag, and the realisation hits.

Grantaire looks his usual disheveled, unshaven self, now watching him with a cigarette of his own, his expression a mix of confusion, and what looks like concern. Enjolras' hands begin to sweat as Grantaire starts speaking.

“Are you, y'know, alright?” he ventures, his thick eyebrows furrowing.

“Yeah, it's just, this _thing_ wouldn't work,” Enjolras gestures with his lighter before throwing it into a nearby trash can.

Grantaire nods, following the trajectory. “Yeah, I could tell. I meant are you okay? You seem pretty riled up and– I didn't know you smoke?”

Enjolras’ hands double down on the sweating. “Don't tell anyone, nobody knows,” he blurts out, “Please.”

“Hey, chill, it's okay,” Grantaire holds up his hands in response, “I won't tell anyone, promise.”

“Not even Combeferre,” Enjolras adds.

“Well, he's part of 'anyone', isn't he?” he asks slyly. “I promise.”

Enjolras searches his face for sincerity for a few moments, coming to rest on his shadowed eyes; they're bloodshot and dilated in the darkness, but Enjolras has seen him worse for wear. He’s not sure Grantaire can say the same for him.

He nods. “Thank you," he says, returning the sincerity. The shaking starts to subside.

“C'mon,” Grantaire starts, “We don't wanna be late, do we?”

Enjolras smiles warily. “Is this twenty questions? 'Isn't he?', 'do we?'...” he trails off, stubbing his cigarette on the wall as they start walking.

Grantaire flashes a toothy grin. “Was that a question?”

“Was that?”

“Ah, piss off.”

–––

“I know I'm irresistible and I'm buying our round, but staring at me while I'm at the bar isn’t gonna work” Courfeyrac starts, setting three drinks down on the table.

Combeferre frowns at him from behind his glasses. “I wasn't staring at you?”

Courfeyrac shakes his head while taking a sip of his drink. "No, not you. Enjolras.”

It's now Enjolras' turn to frown. “I wasn't staring at you either,” he says. “And sorry for dashing your dreams, but I'm not interested in you like that, Courf.”

“Good, I wouldn't be able to take care of your needs,” he states bluntly.

“What 'needs'?” Enjolras scoffs.

“Ah I don't know,” Courfeyrac smirks, “I'm just making shit up.”

“No, no, he definitely has needs,” Jehan’s hand rests on Enjolras’ shoulder as he drags up a chair with his foot, a bottle of wine and a single glass in his other hand.

“I’d love to know what everyone thinks my needs are.”

“Stop saying ‘needs’,” Combeferre interjects quietly, taking a sip of his drink.

“Grantaire, huh?” Jehan twitches his head in the direction of the bar; Combeferre half swallows, half chokes on his drink and coughs out a laugh.

“You're gonna have to elaborate,” Courfeyrac says, smiling at both the implication and at Combeferre’s mishap as Jehan grins.

“Enjolras was staring at him. Has he pissed you off or something?”

Enjolras raises his eyebrows and ignores Combeferre and Courfeyrac's stares. “No, how would he have pissed me off?”

“You two argue all the t—”

“We discuss, not argue,” Enjolras interrupts.

“Well, you were staring pretty intensely,” Jehan replies ludicrously. The glugging sound of wine being poured fills the silence as Enjolras considers his answer.

“I didn't mean to, I was just thinking.”

“About Grantaire?”

Enjolras rubs his hand over his face. “No, not about Grantaire. Just thinking.”

It's a lie. When conversation has ebbed, Grantaire has been Enjolras' main train of thought all night. He knows Enjolras' secret – well, one of his secrets, he thinks. His hands threaten to sweat again.

Other than basic information, Enjolras barely knows a thing about Grantaire. Besides their frequent “discussions”, they hardly speak to each other; he doesn’t dislike Grantaire, most of the time he gets an odd kick of enjoyment from their debates, but outside of those they’re rarely in the same conversations. There's a feeling in the pit of his stomach that tells him that's about to change.

He throws another distant glance toward the bar as he nurses his drink; in the corner of his eye he sees Combeferre take one look at his face, and knows to move away from the topic of Grantaire.

“So, what _are_ Enjolras’ actual needs?” he asks, looking at Jehan, and Enjolras kicks him under the table with intent.

\---

The end of the night rolls around too soon for Enjolras. Hushed laughter echoes through the streets as they all leave the warmth of the Musain to walk to their respective homes; it's mostly Bahorel's laughter that echoes — Feuilly tries to keep him quiet but only serves to make him laugh even more.

Everyone splits into their own conversations, Enjolras happy to walk slowly at the back and watch them all laugh and stumble along drunkenly, deep into his own gentle-but-definitely-there alcoholic buzz. The streets wind and turn in front of them, and it’s almost dizzying in this state, but every step is Paris and every step is home.

Enjolras’ phone vibrates in his pocket and pulls him out of his reverie. He checks it, noticing the sound has summoned Grantaire, whose eyes rake over the group before he speaks.

“We're all here, so who could possibly be messaging you at half one in the morning?”

Enjolras raises his eyebrows, not looking away from the screen. “Was that another question?” Grantaire shoots him an overly exasperated look that he answers with a smirk. “Just someone from work, nothing important.”

“Jesus, take a break from your job, relax.”

Enjolras gestures to their friends obviously as he slips his phone away. “I _am_ relaxing _and_ I'm keeping tabs. No harm done.”

A nod comes in reply, but Grantaire's expression is reluctant. “Sure.”

Enjolras relaxes the muscles he hadn’t realised were tensing. Lying to his friends twice in one night feels awful, even if this one isn’t technically a lie, just… an omission, he settles on. One lie, one omission. He can cope with that. He can’t quite cope with the fact that both have concerned Grantaire, who’s now considering his next line of enquiry.

“Will there be harm done if I ask about the smoking?”

Enjolras keeps his voice level. “Depends what you ask."

“Why don't you tell anyone?” Grantaire shakes his head to stop Enjolras' interruption, “No, I know, I'm not gonna tell anyone and I don't want to. I’m not _that_ bad. I was just wondering, why keep it secret?”

A breeze blows a loose curl across Enjolras’ forehead as he thinks, and he combs his fingers through his hair slowly, resettling it. “I don't see the point,” he shrugs, “It’s a stress thing and it rarely happens. If I brought it up they'd ask questions that I don't wanna answer.”

Grantaire bows his head. “Fair enough, man. If you ever wanna talk, you know I'm here, right?”

The second dose of sincerity in one night startles Enjolras. Visibly, apparently, and Grantaire falters.

“I mean, they're all here too, and I'm probably last on your list but—”

“No, I— You're not last,” Enjolras pauses. “Thank you. It means a lot. Same goes for you.”

Grantaire nods again. “Cheers.”

They smile at each other, and the warmth settles in the air between them.

“Éponine is last on my list, by the way.”

“Ah, yeah. Fair choice.”

–––

Enjolras goes on a date with ‘just someone from work’.

They share a kiss.

He thinks of Grantaire.

It’s ‘nothing important’.

\---

“So, what? You'd expect everyone to be like you in situations like that? Because you're so perfect and moral?”

“I didn't say I'd expect everyone to be like me, I said I _think_ the majority of people would feel the same as me.”

“You really think the majority of people are as into martyrdom as you?”

A relentless end-of-season downpour is in full swing, the rain hard and biting, and Enjolras' hand shakes as he punches in the code for his apartment building in the dark.

“Y'know what? Fuck— No, it's not martyrdom, we've said absolutely nothing about dying, and no, I wouldn't expect it, because no, I'm not perfect. But I _am_ cold, and I'm wet, and I'm tired. You can come inside if you want, on the condition that we _shut the fuck up about this_.”

Grantaire's expression goes blank at the harshly-delivered invite. “You mean like, sleep over?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras shrugs, “No offence, but you look about as tired as I feel, I doubt walking any further in this seems very appealing,” he gestures to the rain hitting the pavement, which only seems to get stronger.

“I— Sure. Thanks.” Grantaire's expression remains blank, verging on dazed.

Enjolras nods. “C'mon. No more shouting, I have neighbours.”

Grantaire takes the stairs two at a time, stripping his soaked-through jacket as he goes, almost reaching Enjolras' apartment before him. They both groan when the warmth of the apartment hits them, then quietly laugh at each other, their earlier discussion already forgotten.

Enjolras locks the door, hangs his coat and throws his keys onto the counter, turning to find Grantaire openly surveying the room.

“Nice place,” he says, nodding slowly — Enjolras realises Grantaire must've only ever seen it in pictures and brief glances when he’d come calling with others, hanging back on the threshold or even just staying outside completely.

Enjolras’ apartment isn’t exactly a mess, but it’s not as well-kept as he’d like it to be with a guest over: there’s paper stacked haphazardly on the coffee table, odd coins strewn on every surface, and an overflowing wastepaper basket. The few plants he’s been gifted by Les Amis over the years have definitely seen better days.

“It’s not much but, yeah.”

Grantaire doesn’t miss a trick. “You’ve seen what ‘not much’ looks like, this isn’t ‘not much’.”

“You’re right,” Enjolras concedes; he knows he rarely says that to Grantaire and holds his breath in anticipation of an onslaught, but it doesn’t come. Instead, his brow furrows.

“Am I sleeping in with you, or?” he ventures.

“If you want to, everyone else does," Enjolras says, yawning as he walks to the bedroom.

Grantaire follows him silently, then stops in the doorway. “By 'everyone' do you literally mean everyone at once? Why the hell is your bed so big?”

“It’s just a king.”

“Down with the monarchy,” Grantaire quips, monotonous with a non-committal fist in the air.

Enjolras blanks him, switching his t-shirt for a fresh one and throwing a second in Grantaire’s direction, but doesn’t feel the eyes raking over his bare torso.

“Bed _and_ dry clothes on my back?” Grantaire marvels aloud, “Maybe you are a saint.”

“Maybe. Give me your jeans,” Enjolras rolls his eyes at the cartoonish height of Grantaire's eyebrows, “To _dry_ ,” he continues, shaking his own drenched pair to demonstrate.

It proves to be a difficult task, and Enjolras can't help but laugh as Grantaire peels them off — perhaps not the best idea to gawk so openly, he thinks when Grantaire glares at him.

He's awkwardly standing in the same spot, evidently feeling far too exposed, when Enjolras finishes hanging their clothes.

“You can get in, it doesn't bite," Enjolras gestures, watching as Grantaire all but sinks into the mattress, a small groan escaping his mouth.

He rolls over, stretches out his arms and legs in turn and sighs, relaxing in place like a deadweight as Enjolras climbs in beside him. “This is why you have a king bed,” he mumbles.

“This is why I have a king bed,” Enjolras confirms.

He says goodnight, and Grantaire only hums, both foolishly unaware of the blistering hole he’s burning into Enjolras’ brain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew so I originally started this five years ago, uploaded two chapters and then life got in the way. I started uni, gathered more fandoms, finished uni, got two jobs and did some growing up amongst that.  
> Other than the couple of times that I refound the files on my laptop, I pretty much completely forgot about this fic, but with the stupid amount of time on my hands now I've come crawling back to Les Mis fics, and that included a reread of what I'd written. It wasn't too bad? Some of it was definitely cringeworthy but overall I kinda liked it, and decided it was worth reworking into something better (hopefully some people agree).  
> Please bear with me on this — I had a plot five years ago but can't remember any of it, so I'm working with the bare bones of a new idea and just going with it.  
> Out of curiosity I counted up the number of questions Grantaire asked in this chapter and by sheer chance it was 20. That pretty much told me to stop editing and finally upload.  
> Thanks for reading! More soon.


	2. Chapter 2

The sharp noise of Enjolras’ alarm cuts through his sleep. It’s familiar enough that it barely phases him, but grating enough for him to swiftly turn it off. He would’ve forgotten about last night if Grantaire hadn’t physically flinched in shock at the sound beside him.

“It’s a _Saturday_ ,” he hisses, as Enjolras replaces the offending phone back on the bedside table, “Why the fuck do you have an alarm set for a Saturday?”

Enjolras yawns as he rolls over to face him. “I like to be awake.”

Grantaire huffs. “I’m gonna beat you with your stupid perfect satin pillows.”

Enjolras holds Grantaire’s deadpan gaze and smirks, but breaks into a smile after a second; Grantaire does the same, and Enjolras has never seen his smile like this before, close and unguarded. It’s brighter than he thought.

Grantaire’s laughter fades into a yawn, and he settles in deeper. “I like your bed,” he mumbles, shrugging the cover up higher, “I haven't slept that well since... like, ever, I think.”

In the dim light, Enjolras can see that Grantaire's eyes aren't as dark as usual, his air far more calm. It's a side to Grantaire that he's never seen – even when relaxed around friends, there's always a hunch to his shoulders, as though something is hanging over him. For the first time in years, Enjolras knows the feeling, but, for the first time ever, Enjolras lets Grantaire’s ease keep the feeling away.

His ability to form a relevant reply is lost, so he hums and waits for Grantaire to continue.

He doesn't. He simply blinks his eyes shut, pulling the duvet up to his face and holding it to his nose. Enjolras follows suit and rests his eyes, but the image of Grantaire stays in his mind.

The rain has endured overnight, only lessening in strength, and its gentle sound almost lulls them back to sleep; Grantaire's stomach groans, and Enjolras erupts into laughter.

“Christ, this always used to happen in exams.”

“You went to exams?”

In one swift motion, Grantaire sits up, grabbing his pillow and bringing it down on Enjolras’ head. Enjolras breaks into laughter again, but comes back down to earth when he’s faced with the reminder that Grantaire is wearing one of his t-shirts.

“I take it you're hungry?” he manages to ask, breathing raspy.

“Starving.”

“The best I can offer you is cereal.”

“What’s the worst you can offer?”

“Shit coffee and toast.”

“Is cereal better than toast?” 

“Yes.”

“Doubt.”

Grantaire suddenly shifts to the edge of the bed and leans down — Enjolras quickly averts his eyes at the sight of his boxers as he pulls his phone off the floor with a flourish and begins typing silently.

Enjolras uses the time to check his own phone, dismissing a couple of work notifications and clicking onto their group chat when it pings.

 **alphabet soup** **  
**Muse: Anyone coming in for lunch today? I’m bored already  
Ep9: yea  
Mille-feuille: will be there around 12  
Bahoerel: I can make it  
Granny R u ok: is cereal better than toast  
Jolly: Yes

Enjolras smiles to himself.

Enjie-benjie: Thanks Joly  
Jolly: I don’t like the crumbs

“One person isn’t a win, ‘Enjie-benjie’,” Grantaire remarks.

Enjolras had forgotten what Courfeyrac had set his nickname to and drops his smile; Courfeyrac’s creativity had arguably started and ended when setting Grantaire’s name.

The chat buzzes again.

Ep9: are you going out of your way to argue w each other over text now  
Ep9: please don’t i can’t cope w it  
JP: 👀  
Comb: Toast is better

“Oh, the _betrayal_ ,” Grantaire snides, looking at Enjolras with fake scandalised shock. Apparently now satisfied with the chaos he’s caused, he prises himself out of bed and shivers at the sudden lack of warmth.

“Pyjama bottoms in the second drawer,” Enjolras gestures in the general direction of the chest as he types out a message to advertise for a new best friend. “Throw me a pair too, please.”

Despite keeping his arm out of the covers to catch them, Grantaire throws them onto his head.

“Come feed me before I put cereal in your toaster.”

\---

Grantaire stays for a couple of hours, and he’s surprisingly welcome company. When he leaves — citing the need to “Use my own shitty shower, this is too much luxury for one day” — Enjolras walks him to his apartment and continues on to the Musain. The route makes him realise that Grantaire had gone directly out of his way to walk him home the previous night, and even if it was fuelled by their debate, Enjolras is glad for it.

He enters the café and smiles at Musichetta, on her way back to the bar from tending a table.

“Same as usual?” she asks, already keying in his order.

“Yes please.” He pulls out his wallet and throws a glance to their usual booth — Feuilly and Éponine are already settled. “I’ll get their refills too.”

“Aw, such a sweet boy,” she teases.

“Thanks,” he says, flashing a brief sickly-sweet sarcastic smile as he taps his card.

Enjolras admires Musichetta. He’d come to know her through Joly and Bossuet’s feeble attempts to woo her in their time at university; nobody is entirely sure how they succeeded. Studying business, her classes never crossed paths with any of Les Amis, but she had become their de facto server when any of them stumbled through the Musain doors. Back then she would also pick up shifts at the Corinthe, both establishments owned by Monsieur and Madame Hucheloup, and quickly became the Musain’s manager. When Monsieur H passed away, Madame H brought Musichetta into a partnership. Business had thrived, almost single-handedly thanks to Musichetta, though she cites Les Amis’ constant stream of revenue as an invaluable factor in its success.

As she and Enjolras bring their drinks to the table, Éponine rises from her seat, frowning at her phone.

“What’s up?” Feuilly asks her, nodding in thanks to Enjolras.

“Has anyone seen R today?” She begins typing, frown deepening, and Enjolras answers on instinct.

“I saw him on the way over here, near his place, why?”

She grabs her jacket and pulls it on with a huff. “Gavroche. He skipped tutoring with Joly. Zel's at work so Grantaire will have to help me find him. There’s a few places he might be.”

Musichetta pulls out her phone. “I’ll tell everyone to keep a lookout.”

“Thanks,” Éponine says, with an apologetic look. She turns up her jacket collar and tugs on a hat, and a chill blows through the café as she leaves. She disappears in an instant.

Twenty minutes later, Bahorel pushes the door open and holds it, nudging Gavroche in before him.

Gavroche sidles up to the bar, slamming a fist down, a proud expression plastered on his face. “Chetta, give me a milk. Chocolate.”

Musichetta doesn't hesitate — she reaches for him and twists his ear, pulling him close over the bar, emphasising each word as she watches him squirm. “Your sister is worried about you.”

“Why would she worry about me? I was with Bahorel.”

“She always worries about you, and you were _meant_ to be with Joly, so I'll thank you to show the two of them some respect.” She releases him and he utters an apology, straightening himself to act casual again.

Enjolras and Feuilly exchange a look and turn to Bahorel.

“So where'd you find him?" Feuilly asks.

“I’m right here y’know,” Gavroche grumbles; Feuilly ignores him and keeps his focus on Bahorel as he joins the table, and Enjolras makes sure to do the same. 

“He came to the boxing club. Wussed out and didn’t take part, so a pointless excursion really,” Bahorel shrugs. He's an expert at goading Gavroche, who takes the bait as expected.

“I didn’t ‘wuss out’, I only wanted to watch.”

“And where’s the point in that?” Bahorel raises his eyebrows, “You should join, at a time when you’re _not_ pencilled in with Joly.”

Gavroche groans, missing the ferocity with which the café door flies open behind him. “Why do I need tutoring? I go to school, don’t I?”

“Mostly,” Grantaire says, trailing behind Éponine as she storms across the room.

Her speech is faster than it is loud, intimidating in her own way. “I ask Joly to tutor you because our parents didn’t give me and Azelma shit, and I want you to have a better chance than us. Don’t you _get_ that?”

Gavroche’s cockiness practically sublimates, and he nods curtly. “Y-yeah, I know. It’s— I—” Musichetta clears her throat pointedly, and he looks quickly between her and Éponine. “I'm sorry,” he blurts out quickly, but it’s earnest.

Éponine nods, a mirror of Gavroche’s a moment ago. “Joly’s on his way here with your stuff. You’re gonna do your work here and you’re gonna apologise to him too.”

“Okay.”

“Good. Sit down,” she gestures to the table behind their usual and he drops into a chair opposite her.

With the tension diffused, Bahorel smiles up at Grantaire. “How’s it going? Didn’t see you at the club today?”

Grantaire is freshly showered, his dark hair tied back despite the cold outside. In the light of the café, Enjolras can see just how well-rested he looks, and he falls into his second reverie of the day about how much this look suits him, but it's broken when Grantaire glances at him.

“Yeah, just felt like a day off today,” he shrugs, and takes the free seat next to Enjolras with a forced nonchalance that only he notices.

“I’ll get your drink,” Bahorel says, rising at the same moment as Feuilly, who heads to the toilet.

“Can you get my lunch too?” Grantaire calls after him.

“ _No_.”

When they’re alone, Grantaire picks at a napkin for a few moments, bouncing his leg incessantly. “So you lied to 'Ponine?” he asks, somewhat bitterly.

Enjolras’ instinct to immediately bite back is unusually subdued. “Technically, no. I figured it wasn't exactly the best time to explain that we argued and you slept over.”

Whatever reaction Grantaire was ready to make, he stops himself and his brow knits lightly. His leg slows. “Oh. True.”

“You’re welcome to stay whenever you want.” Enjolras isn’t sure why he extends the warmth so readily considering Grantaire’s assumptive bitterness, but it had been nice having someone there, nicer so that it was Grantaire.

He scrutinises Enjolras for a moment, wetting his lips before he nods. “I think I'll take you up on that.”

When he smiles, it's lopsided, and that in itself makes Enjolras smile back.

\---

Enjolras goes on a second date. ‘Just someone from work’ is called Adrien.

Adrien had volunteered to be interviewed for the marketing of their latest campaign, and Enjolras had taken the liberty of some ‘productive procrastination’ to greet the (paid) volunteers and sit in on the shoot. Something with Adrien had clicked — Courfeyrac had described it as “the same wavelength” — and they’d exchanged texts ever since.

They speak of politics, the news, the world, and it’s all within Enjolras’ comfort zone. He tells Adrien of Les Amis; Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s delicate dance around flirtation; the stray cats Bahorel and Feuilly insist on taking in; Jehan’s proficiency at playing meme songs on the flute, and the categorisation of alcohol products stored in the JBM household.

He also tells Adrien of Grantaire and his impossibility, though he doesn’t linger on it. Enjolras is extremely aware of how much he now dwells on the topic of Grantaire in the rest of his time.

Still, he dwells, even after Adrien caresses his cheek, and kisses him for longer.

\---

The annual April Fools night that the Corinthe holds has had lethal effects on Enjolras’ brain since its inception years ago, and this year he had vowed to keep track of his intake and not fall into the usual trap. He believes he hasn’t, until he stands to leave and quickly realises his mistake.

The clock has just struck three when he and Grantaire stumble into his apartment. Enjolras had been propped up by Grantaire as they’d walked, but had switched when faced with the stairs, Enjolras half dragging Grantaire up. 

Once inside, Grantaire kicks off a shoe and immediately trips over it; Enjolras catches him before he hits the floor and laughs, but sways heavily himself as he leads them to his room.

After what seems to be a habitual fight with his clothing, Grantaire falls into bed, almost headbutting Enjolras as he lands and momentarily suffocating him with a face full of dark curls. 

The scent of his hair lingers as Enjolras pushes him to the correct side of the mattress; it’s a distinct perfume, a sweet mix of the house wine produced at the Corinthe, and what seems to be coconut shampoo. The faintest trace remains in Enjolras' nose, and lulls him into an almost instant sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started typing an apology for taking so long on this one but a week and a half isn't that long in AO3 terms, right? Either way, it's been a long eleven days and I hope everyone out there is doing good.  
> This one was a bit of a struggle because I couldn't quite figure out the chapter end, but while I was procrastinating tackling it I worked on a lot of scenes for the next few chapters and thankfully I have some semblance of plot in my head now. It was nice to have some 2015 stuff to use as a starting point but now I'm grateful to have finished reworking these first two chapters and excited for completely new ones. Look out for some angst in the next one.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated rating. You'll see why.

Despite the cotton wool feeling in his head, Enjolras manages to drag himself out of bed and into the shower before noon. Grantaire had remained undisturbed, still sleeping fast as Enjolras tried to keep quiet, but is coming around as he re-enters the room. He scans the empty bed next to him before lifting his head to turn to Enjolras.

“Wh— Fuck,” Grantaire grumbles, closing his eyes and rubbing at them.

“What?”

“Couldn’t you have dried off more? Or put a t-shirt on maybe? You’re borderline pornographic.”

Enjolras huffs a laugh. “Grow up.”

Grantaire replaces his head on the pillow with a sigh and purposefully keeps his eyes closed; it’s an odd sight, Enjolras thinks, Grantaire alone in his bed, but a good odd. He’s comfortable and relaxed and settled, and Enjolras considers rejoining him. 

The water dripping onto his shoulders advises him otherwise, and he picks a white t-shirt to pull on; it clings to him, dark skin clear through the fabric, and he has to hide a smile in his voice as he speaks.

“I’m decent now.”

Grantaire looks up at him, his face instantly turning incredulous. “Seriously?”

“Especially for you,” he grins.

“You’re unbelievable.”

Enjolras laughs and pats his hair with an old t-shirt as Grantaire pulls himself up, rubbing at his eyes again and massaging his head. 

“You coming to Courf’s?” Enjolras asks.

“Hangover club?”

“Yeah.”

“Absolutely. Got any smokes?”

A bolt of anxiety shoots through Enjolras, stilling him for a second. He’d forgotten about that.

He nods silently, fetches a box from his bedside drawer and passes them over; Grantaire takes them with a "thank you" and rolls out of bed. He blinks against the sun as he opens a window and leans out, his lashes and the edges of his hair tinted a wonderful bronze colour in the light. He looks well-rested again, but his eyes are heavy with the effects of last night.

Enjolras joins him, opening the second pane and leaning on the iron bannister; Grantaire offers him a drag which he declines.

“Not stressed today?” he asks gently.

“No,” Enjolras says, “Not right now.”

“Good,” Grantaire nods, smiling across at him.

Enjolras smiles in return, and closes his eyes to soak in the sunlight.

\---

“Okay, so,” Bahorel starts, squeezing sauce onto his plate, “Picture this. Some guy is throwing it back for you—”

“Gross.”

“‘Ponine just imagine it’s a woman, okay? So, they’re throwing it back—”

“What if I’m throwing it back for them?” Joly asks.

“That’s fine too. Either way, you can’t see their face—”

“Why do you always ask this stuff when none of us got any the night before?”

“It’s just a hypothetical, Courf, it’s fun.”

“You’re an honorary member of hangover club, Rel. You don’t even _get_ hangovers,” Courfeyrac exasperates, “This is _my_ apartment, I’ll kick you out if you keep doing this.”

“No more interruptions, _please_ ,” Bahorel raises a hand for quiet, “So, they’re throwing it back, or you’re throwing it back, you can’t see their face, and they say someone else’s name. What do you do?” He punctuates the question with a bite of his food.

“Well, I mix up Joly and Chetta all the time and it’s never a problem, but that’s a different situation,” Bossuet offers.

“Interesting.”

“Is this a hypothetical or did Feuilly say someone else’s name last night?” Combeferre asks over his tea.

“No, no, I called him Fleury.”

Grantaire laughs suddenly and inhales some of his toast, eyes watering as he coughs and reaches for his glass.

“See, that’s what I mean,” Joly gives him a pointed look, “It’s the crumbs.”

Enjolras looks from Grantaire to Joly and crumples into laughter. 

Grantaire shakes his head. “I can’t believe I’m being subjected to this toast slander again.”

Courfeyrac quickly cuts in as Enjolras opens his mouth to cite the definition of slander. “No arguing in hangover club please, kids.”

“We’re not arguing,” Enjolras says.

“We’re _discussing_ ,” Grantaire continues, flashing Enjolras a grin.

Enjolras laughs again, half giddy, and doesn’t notice the glances everyone else exchanges — everyone except Grantaire, who holds his gaze and laughs with him.

\---

The first half of the week goes by without incident. Work is work, Les Amis are busy, and so Enjolras passes his spare time watching documentaries, reading, or mulling around in mind-numbing boredom.

He’s in the middle of doing just that and working up the motivation to go to bed when his phone buzzes. He glances at it, bleary-eyed and horizontal, half asleep on the couch.

 **R  
** Message

He rubs the sleep from his eyes, checking the screen again and unlocking it in curiosity.

R: have you ever been in love

He frowns in confusion. This message definitely wasn’t for him. 

E: Wrong number?  
R: did you just new phone who dis me?  
E: No  
E: You never text me  
E: And no I don’t think so  
R: oh so you’re a double texter outside of group chats too  
E: Yeah  
E: Why  
R: bruh

-

In the Corinthe, Grantaire drops his phone onto the table and drags his hands down his face.

“Don’t fucking call him ‘bruh’,” he huffs.

-

E: What  
R: nothing  
R: just wondering  
R: you never talk about relationship stuff  
E: So you’re a double texter too?  
R: yea  
E: I just don’t have much to say  
E: Are you talking about my relationships?  
R: finally something where you don’t have much to say  
R: no just wondering  
E: I swear to god  
R: i’m listening 😇  
E: I’ll block you  
R: bet

Enjolras can see Grantaire starts typing but stops. He’s more than intrigued now, and the desire to keep talking overrides the humour in leaving it there and pretending Grantaire is blocked for the night.

E: I’ve never had relationships long enough for love but I felt something deep for my first crush in school  
E: Nothing happened and I was only a kid but still  
R: gay  
R: was he cute  
E: I guess  
R: do you actually like date people  
R: i’ve never seen you w anyone  
E: When I’m interested I do  
E: Like I said nothing’s ever been long term

Enjolras types out a message and hovers over the send button, watching the dots bounce as Grantaire types something too. He scrunches his nose as he sends it.

E: I’ve got a date tomorrow

Grantaire stops typing.

“ _Fuck_.”

The bubble reappears briefly. 

R: oh  
E: It’s nothing serious  
R: u sly minx  
R: i thought everything w u had to be serious  
E: It’s almost like I have some depth of character  
R: yeah almost

The knot in Enjolras’ stomach compels him to explain himself. He starts typing out the quick version of events, fingers moving faster than his brain as he reiterates that it’s not a big deal, but he loses the race he didn’t realise he was running.

R: who is he

The knot tightens. Enjolras recognises it as a rare but familiar strain of shameful guilt and considers how misplaced it is; he should be feeling guilty for Adrien, who he’s barely spoken to all week, but he’s here, feeling bad because of Grantaire. _For_ Grantaire, even. Why had he asked about love? And why Enjolras of all people?

He bites back the questions and decides to give Grantaire the answers straight. 

E: Adrien, he was in a campaign at work  
R: cool  
R: first date?

Enjolras’ stomach drops.

E: Third  
R: nice

“' _Nice_ '?”

E: I guess  
R: you sound enthusiastic

He doesn’t have time for this, he thinks. He locks his phone and drags himself through his nighttime routine, sending goodbye messages out of principle.

E: I need to sleep  
E: Work in the morning  
R: sure  
E: Goodnight Grantaire  
R: night

\---

“Sorry, I forgot I had to bring these home. I can make coffee before we head back out?”

“Yes please. And it’s fine, now I get the chance to snoop around your place.”

Enjolras smiles as he turns the key and lets Adrien in. “I can’t say there’s much to find, I’m an open book.”

“You are definitely not an open book, Enjolras,” Adrien laughs. “I feel like I’ve read the blurb and the thank yous and stared at the author photo for a questionable amount of time.”

Enjolras laughs with him as he sets the poster rolls and packages by his desk, relieving Adrien of the ones he’d offered to carry.

“Is this the campaign I’m in?”

“Yeah. I’ll open up a box and you can take some if you’d like?”

“Sure. Your friends are gonna distribute all of these?”

“And they’ll ask for more.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. I’ll make that coffee,” Enjolras says.

He watches Adrien from the kitchen; he politely turns from the open documents on Enjolras’ desk, instead surveying the books on his coffee table. He puts one down as Enjolras hands him a mug.

“It’s not the best,” Enjolras says, grimacing slightly as he takes a sip.

A gust of wind howls against the window and they both turn to glance outside.

“It’s better than anything we’re gonna get out there,” Adrien replies.

Enjolras hums in agreement and leans to place his coffee on the table a moment after Adrien, and as he straightens back up Adrien is suddenly kissing him. It’s soft, but Enjolras can feel the motive behind it.

He steadies himself and guides them backwards, letting himself drop onto the couch as Adrien straddles his hips. He places his hands on the small of Adrien‘s back, slowly bringing them down further and tightening his grip, and Adrien moans into his mouth. He grinds down and deepens the kiss, and Enjolras senses that perhaps dinner isn’t going to happen tonight.

Adrien’s hands start to wander, coming to rest at Enjolras’ fly, and Enjolras mirrors the action.

“Can I?” Adrien breathes.

Enjolras nods and repeats back the question.

“Please.”

Enjolras is quick to the chase, pushing past the fabric of Adrien’s underwear with ease, and finds his clit slick and wet in anticipation. Adrien bucks his hips against the press of his fingers and moans again, momentarily distracted from Enjolras’ zipper, and Enjolras can feel his own reaction build as he watches the pleasure on the man’s face.

Adrien partially recovers, a new dark tint to his cheeks, and takes Enjolras into his hand — the air in Enjolras’ lungs quickly escapes, replaced with Adrien’s lips on his again.

Accepting that dinner definitely isn’t happening, Enjolras lets instinct take over; he breaks the kiss, pulling his fingers from Adrien and into his own mouth before kissing him again, and the action is met with a third moan.

He brings his hands under Adrien’s thighs and lifts him, his legs lacing tightly around Enjolras’ waist as he carries him to the bedroom.

\---

His taste is still on Enjolras' lips as Adrien climaxes again, hands clawing desperately at Enjolras’ back to pull him in deeper.

Enjolras slows but continues his rhythm, and his face burns as he dips his head into the nook of Adrien’s neck; a familiar scent suddenly fills his nose, something alcoholic — an aromatic wine, and something tropical. 

He jolts his head away in shock, but everything heightens at once: Adrien’s legs at his hips, Adrien’s tongue spilling his name, Adrien’s final throes tensing around him, and the scent of Grantaire’s hair clogging his brain.

He loses himself with a shudder, eyes scrunched shut as his head drops involuntarily, the scent of coconut shampoo on the pillow all but suffocating him.

He’s acutely aware of Adrien petting his hair as he brings himself back around. He shifts underneath Enjolras, kissing his cheek before meeting his gaze with a smile, which Enjolras shakily tries to return.

“That was…” Adrien starts, but can’t seem to finish.

Enjolras hums in response, breathless and appalled.

Adrien simply smiles, and kisses him again.

\---

He doesn’t stay long. They chat, and Enjolras tries not to be despondent. Adrien doesn’t seem to notice, but it only serves to make him feel guiltier.

When he leaves, face still flushed and posters in hand, he kisses Enjolras goodbye, and Enjolras can’t help but think that he’s far too sweet for him. 

He closes the door and pushes the heels of his palms into his eyes, a long exhale rattling through his chest.

He steels himself as he sets to stripping his sheets, working on autodrive as he bypasses the hamper and immediately shoves them into the washing machine; they go on for the longest wash possible.

He cooks a lousy dinner and crashes on the couch, willing the recurring visions of that singular moment to cease and allow him a restful sleep. Their intensity only grows as the night goes on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you I'd be quicker on this one. You get one guess on which scene I've spent the past few days scrutinising every word of.  
> Again, a lot of the next chapter is already written so that one might not be too long a wait either. Thanks for reading and for the lovely comments! I'm not used to putting my writing out into the world so it's really nice to get that kind of feedback.


	4. Chapter 4

“ _Soooo_ , third date last night, how did it go?”

“Good.”

“Just good?”

“What’s wrong with good?” 

Enjolras had barely slept, work had been a slog and his body had been screaming at him all day. The promise of a quiet drink with Combeferre and Courfeyrac before everyone else shows up to celebrate the weekend had been a light at the end of a frankly exhausting tunnel.

“How was the food?” Combeferre interjects, before Courfeyrac can continue his own line of fire.

“The food?” Enjolras falters. 

“Yeah. The food. At that new restaurant you said you two were going to. It looks nice, I’d like to try it.”

“Oh. Yeah, it was good.”

“Yeah? Any recommendations?” Combeferre glances at Courfeyrac knowingly. 

Amidst his floundering, Enjolras misses the telltale look in Courfeyrac’s eyes as the cogs turn, and is powerless to stop him from half shouting.

“Oh my god, you got your dick wet!”

“Jesus, shut _up_!” Enjolras growls. 

Courfeyrac ducks his head with a sheepish smile, but attention has already been drawn as hushed laughter from strangers echoes across the room, and Enjolras can only be thankful that Musichetta isn’t around yet to overhear.

“Sorry,” Courfeyrac says, “But when was the last time this happened, huh? I’m buying this round.” He hops up and leans against the bar three feet away, and Enjolras frowns at him.

“It’s not your turn?”

“When has that ever stopped him? And you’re a terrible liar, Enjolras, always have been,” Combeferre says, the hint of reprimand in his voice coated with a small smile.

Enjolras sighs and rolls his eyes in surrender before Combeferre becomes distracted by something behind him; he quickly shoots Enjolras an apologetic look, but it does nothing to prepare him for what comes next. 

“Did I hear something about a dick getting wet?” Grantaire practically sings, thoroughly jovial as he strides across the room.

Enjolras’ chest tightens and he closes his eyes while his back is still turned. Thankfully, Courfeyrac senses his tension seamlessly, humming noncommittally in response, but Grantaire persists.

“You?” he asks.

“Nope.”

“Oh?” he sounds, looking from Courfeyrac to the table, and Enjolras can feel the moment that he remembers their conversation two nights ago. “Oh. Nice.” His tone is undecipherable, and before he can stop himself Enjolras turns to read his face. 

It’s a mistake. Grantaire is trying but failing to keep a neutral expression, his voice hollow and eyes staring daggers at Enjolras as he continues.

“It’s about time. Third date, wasn’t it? I suppose Apollo was easy too.”

Enjolras scoffs, suddenly seething, and ignores the logic to stay seated, purposefully standing between Courfeyrac and Grantaire as Louison places four drinks on the bar. His physical block does nothing to dampen Courfeyrac’s reaction, who only seems to siphon more anger from Enjolras’ proximity.

“ _Easy_?” Courfeyrac starts, incredulous, “R, what the _fuck_ are you—” His expression softens slightly as he looks from Grantaire to Enjolras and back again. “Wait, _you_ knew about Adrien?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

“I told him,” Enjolras mutters.

“You tell each other things?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras nods, “And apparently I should talk about my relationships more. Though the reception I’m getting right now isn’t exactly encouraging,” he bites, turning his head in Grantaire’s direction but refusing to look at him.

He takes two glasses, taps one against Courfeyrac’s and sits back down, handing the other to Combeferre with a second tap. 

“To being easy. Cheers,” he says, taking a long drink. 

Grantaire huffs something between a laugh and a scoff before taking his leave to the other side of the room. With his gaze gone, Enjolras can feel Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s eyes on him, and a hot shame creeps up his neck. He risks a look at Combeferre, and there’s a question in his face, to which Enjolras just shakes his head. 

\---

Very little of the night sticks in Enjolras’ memory. 

He remembers Musichetta ordering the staff to not serve him anything other than water; Bossuet’s insistence on feeding him bread; Feuilly’s concerned expression as he had suggested he slow down, and the blur of Cosette’s floral dress as she all but flew into his eyeline in an attempt to block his view from the scene behind her. Despite her best efforts, perhaps the clearest memory of the night is the image over her shoulder, of a woman in Grantaire’s lap, his hands wandering her body as he kisses her. 

He doesn’t quite remember how Combeferre and Courfeyrac drag him home. He remembers feeling heavy, and a fourth pair of feet leading their way, but the conversations around him are muffled. 

He remembers Jehan – that’s who it was, the fourth pair – pulling the spare key from Combeferre’s pocket and granting them entry, and he sighs in content recognition of his apartment. 

He doesn’t see them exchange pitied looks when they find his bed bare of sheets. They set him upright on the couch, propped by Jehan, who strokes his head as Combeferre and Courfeyrac fight with his bed linen in the next room.

An indeterminate amount of time passes before they haul him step by step and drop him onto the mattress. Someone strips his shoes and jeans, someone tries to tame his hair up into a high bun, and someone else climbs in next to him.

He falls into unconsciousness as a voice speaks.

“Just text if you need us. We’ll come back in the morning.”

And then a second, as a whisper: “Goodnight Jehan. Goodnight, Enjolras.”

\---

When Enjolras wakes, there’s a single blissful moment of ignorance, before an onslaught of the fractured images assault his senses all at once. He gasps a breath as he blinks furiously, catching a glimpse of Jehan sitting against the headboard beside him.

“I’m pretty sure you’re sweating wine,” he says with a sympathetic smile, and Enjolras groans as he rubs a hand down his face. “Are you gonna be sick?”

He considers the answer for a second. “I don’t think so,” he says, surprised by the hoarseness of his own voice.

“There’s some water here for you for when you can sit up.”

“Thanks. Just give me like, five minutes.”

“Or an hour?”

“Or an hour, yeah,” Enjolras mumbles, letting his hand drop and closing his eyes again.

Something in his head is pounding against his skull and he can’t understand how the darkness behind his eyelids manages to spin so violently. He takes his original five minutes — though no silence with Jehan is awkward, he knows that he’s waiting to have some sort of conversation. He drags himself up slowly and tries to ignore how the hammering in his head worsens as Jehan passes him the water, allowing him a few small sips before easing into it. 

“You okay?”

“Mm.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I’m— I don’t know, I’m fine,” he shrugs.

“Want an easier question?” Jehan offers.

“Please.”

“Why did you sleep on the couch yesterday?”

“That’s not easier,” Enjolras huffs.

“Okay. Ferre and Courf said you had a date the other day?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

Enjolras is simultaneously grateful and frustrated at his friends’ efforts to keep his privacy. “I slept with him.”

If Jehan is surprised, he doesn’t show it. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No, it was good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras manages a small smile, and the tension eases, a soft quirk on Jehan’s lips.

“Well, while I appreciate your dedication to sanitation, that doesn’t explain why you couldn’t put new sheets on, and instead slept on the couch, before knocking back way more than usual last night and needing adult supervision.”

“You’re adult supervision?”

“Enjolras.”

The warning makes him backtrack quickly. “No, no it doesn’t explain that.”

“And you don’t have to explain it, if you don’t want to. But if you want to then that’s okay too.”

Enjolras can’t bring himself to meet his gaze, nodding silently instead.

“Okay, well,” Jehan starts, relaxing a little, but a frown touches his features as he goes on, “I don’t suppose you know what’s up with Grantaire?”

“I’ve been asking myself that for years,” Enjolras huffs, but Jehan doesn’t laugh like he expects him to.

“He was a mess last night.”

Nausea shoots through Enjolras as his brain rakes up the image of Grantaire’s lips on someone else’s, his hands a gentle but greedy caress. “He seemed to be enjoying himself the last I saw,” he manages.

“That’s because you were too much of a mess yourself to realise,” Jehan raises his eyebrows.

“He—” Enjolras starts without thinking, but something compels him to continue, “He slept over a couple times lately. He seemed okay until yesterday— Well, until Wednesday, I guess.”

Jehan’s brow furrows again with a hint of something Enjolras can’t read. “On his own?”

“What?”

“He slept over, just the two of you?”

“Yeah?”

“How come?”

Enjolras frowns. “I don’t know, it just happened. Why? You sleep here, Ferre and Courf sleep here.”

“Yeah, but that’s us,” Jehan says as though it’s something obvious, “Grantaire is— Well, you and Grantaire, I mean, you’re something else.”

“What does that mean?” 

Jehan shakes his head, half exasperated. “I’m rarely lost for words Enjolras but there’s just none for you two.”

“Wh—”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Jehan’s tone shifts as he suddenly turns his body to face Enjolras — it catches him off guard and his head veers, a sharp pain biting at the back of his eyes as he shrugs again.

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine.”

“But you’re not,” Jehan starts firmly, “We know there’s something wrong, Enjolras. You’re acting weird. You think it’s just Ferre and Courf who notice, or maybe you think even they don’t see it, but we all do. And not just last night, but for weeks now.

“I know the way your stubborn head works. I know you need to break yourself down before you open up to anyone, so I just want you to know that when you’re ready we’re all here for you. We’ll listen, or we’ll talk, or we’ll help, or whatever you need from us. But you need to get yourself to that point in a healthy manner without self-destructing. That’s all we ask. Okay?”

Enjolras had known Jehan’s flight of speech was coming, but he’s still taken aback, and he struggles to speak as he nods. “Yeah,” he says thickly. 

Jehan nods too, resolute. “Good. We all love you, Enjolras. Truly.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know. I love you all too,” Enjolras murmurs, not quite sure how he manages to blink back the sting of tears. 

“Hm,” Jehan smiles gently and takes his hand. “That’s pretty gay,” he notes, and Enjolras coughs out a laugh. He nods again, squeezing Jehan’s hand and regaining some composure.

“Yeah, it is.”

Jehan smiles wider and hums again, his eyes flickering upward. “Now, can I please give you a haircut?”

“Sure.”

\---

“Hello?”

“We’re in the bathroom,” Jehan calls, and there’s a long moment before Combeferre enters the room cautiously.

“Should I be worried?”

Enjolras is sitting on the shower floor, shirtless with his knees drawn up to his chest and a towel around his neck as Jehan cuts away at his split ends. “I hope not.”

“You’re fine,” Jehan reassures, “He was just getting shaggy.”

“Literally,” Enjolras mumbles, and Jehan chuckles behind him.

“That’s the spirit.”

Enjolras’ back is to the door but he can hear the hesitant smile in Combeferre’s voice as he speaks. “So we can talk about it?”

“We can.”

“Good,” Combeferre moves to sit on the toilet lid, appearing in the corner of Enjolras’ vision, “Courf was worried about you but also worried we wouldn’t get the details.”

“I—” Enjolras goes to turn his head but Jehan holds him in place, “There’s not much to tell.”

“Oh, he’ll find stuff for you to tell,” Combeferre assures, though it’s more dread-inducing than anything. “Hungover?”

“Terribly. Where is Courf, by the way?”

“Nursing Marius. He’s in a worse state than you.”

“How come?”

“Grantaire challenged him with shots.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Shocking.”

“Can we talk about that too?” Combeferre ventures.

“About what?”

“Grantaire. He pissed you off something good last night.”

Enjolras sighs. He remembers feeling his blood boil in the heat of the moment, but he knows the truth in Jehan’s words and that something else is behind his spiral. Grantaire’s words had been a frustration at worst.

“No. I mean, yeah,” he corrects, “We can talk about that, but not now. I only have room for one headache.”

“Oh, so dramatic,” Jehan mutters, brushing stray clippings off his arms, “There. All done.”

Enjolras finally looks up at Combeferre, squinting against the light. “How does it look?”

“Good as new,” he affirms.

“Wish I could say the same for myself.”

Combeferre rolls his eyes to Jehan before patting Enjolras’ shoulder and standing. “Shower, get dressed, and you’ll get there.”

“Yeah, in about a week maybe,” Enjolras grumbles, “I feel like I’ve been drowned in alcohol.”

Combeferre grins. “Wait til you see Marius.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well look at me posting at a decent time of day, that's some character development that I'm not gonna be able to keep up at all. Thank you so much for your comments on the last chapter, I was nervous about uploading but everything people say makes it completely worth it.  
> With this one, I swear I had forgotten about Grantaire's "be easy" line in the brick until I skimmed it the other day after this was mostly written. Some kind of divine gay intervention I guess?  
> Final note, it wasn't a lie, this chapter was mostly ready to go but it was a busy week at work and a super rough weekend. Hold onto your friends a little tighter and tell them you love them.


	5. Chapter 5

The walk to Courfeyrac and Marius’ apartment is exactly as painful as Enjolras anticipates. They stop every few streets for him to lean against a wall and re-centre himself, the spring breeze easing the acid that threatens to climb his throat.

Jehan squeezes him tighter than usual as he hugs him goodbye, giving a final wave and tying his locs up as he descends into the Metro. 

When the breeze drops, the sun is harsh and Enjolras sweats more, and he’s sure he couldn’t have picked a worse day to bring on such a hangover. It takes all his motivation to not stop moving in the final two minutes to their building, steadying himself once inside and waiting for Combeferre to unlock the apartment door. He turns the handle, and they’re met with the muffled sound of Marius retching — Combeferre pauses to exchange an uneasy glance with Enjolras before entering.

The bathroom door is slightly open, Courfeyrac sitting on the floor next to it, leaning against the wall and twirling his phone in his hands. His face lights up when he sees them.

“Hey!”

Enjolras tries to smile. “Hey.”

“God, you look terrible.”

“Thanks.”

“The haircut’s good, but you don’t look so—”

“Yeah, I got it.”

The toilet flushes and there’s commotion in the bathroom; Combeferre nods his head in the general direction. “How is he?”

“That was round three,” Courfeyrac half grimaces, half smiles. 

The door slowly opens and Marius emerges, eyes streaming, sweat matting his hair to his forehead, clutching a plastic bin to his chest. It takes a moment for him to register the additional presence.

“Oh, hey Enjolras.”

“Hey.”

“I’m just gonna. Go lie down,” he gestures weakly to his room to no one in particular, and Courfeyrac nods up at him.

“Shout if you need anything.”

“Mmkay,” Marius mumbles, trudging across the floor at a painful speed. They hear him groan as he closes the door softly, and Combeferre looks to Enjolras.

“Feel better now?”

“Definitely.”

Courfeyrac makes a start, clapping his hands together and leaping onto his feet. “Well. That’s one taken care of,” — he crosses the room in large strides, stopping in front of Enjolras to survey him up close — “You feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras says, “Barely, but yeah.”

Courfeyrac nods, a sly smile creeping onto his face. “Ferre said you were up for question time.” He wraps an arm around Enjolras’ shoulder, and Enjolras relaxes into the touch, feeling his guard almost completely slip — almost.

“I see it more like an interrogation than a question time.”

“Oh, you big baby,” Courfeyrac scoffs, “It’s only the horrifyingly intimate and vulnerable ordeal of being known.”

“No big deal,” Combeferre adds coolly.

Enjolras drops his head with a sigh. “Fine, whatever. What do you wanna know?” 

“ _Everything_.”

\---

When Courfeyrac starts running out of lines of enquiry, he flicks on the TV and picks a box set at random, occasionally calling out additional questions as and when they come to him. His mouth pops open to ask another, but Enjolras is saved by the buzz of a message.

 **alphabet soup  
** Fleury: everyone okay?

Courfeyrac had immediately changed Feuilly’s nickname after Bahorel’s story, much to the pair’s delight.

JP: Yeah x  
JP sent a photo.

Enjolras opens it only to exhale loudly; it’s a picture of Combeferre looking into the camera as Enjolras leans against a wall, a pained expression just visible under his hand on his face. A heart reaction appears under it as Courfeyrac barks a laugh on the other side of the couch, and Combeferre grins, looking at Courfeyrac’s phone over his shoulder.

Enjie-benjie: What’s the point  
Fleury: idk whether to class that as okay or not  
JP: 😘  
Enjie-benjie: I’m okay  
Coucou: Marius isn’t  
Coucou: Can’t even take a photo of him he looks too tragic

“You’re really piling on the guilt, huh?” Combeferre asks, and Courfeyrac nods.

“Yep.”

“Guilt?” Enjolras cocks his head. 

As always, Courfeyrac is quick to fire up. “He wouldn’t be so tragic if Grantaire hadn’t kept buying shots, and you wouldn’t have gotten in such a state if he’d kept his mouth shut.”

Enjolras quickly inhales through his nose to keep the memory of Grantaire’s scent out of his head, swallowing the feeling that comes with it. “I can take responsibility for myself.”

“That doesn’t forgive what he said though,” Courfeyrac meets his gaze, eyes ablaze but earnest.

“Yeah, I know,” Enjolras sighs, wanting to say more, but the right words escape him.

“You don’t seem very angry about it.”

“I’m not,” he shrugs, “He’s not an idiot, he knows it was a shitty thing to say. I’m not about to call him out and waste my breath on it.”

Combeferre’s face tells him he agrees, and Courfeyrac starts to simmer down.

“It was just a strange reaction. A shitty one, at that,” he says, his tone easier now. “He seemed annoyed at you. He wouldn’t do that to anyone else.”

Enjolras hums and turns his attention back to the TV, signalling the end of their discussion; Courfeyrac seems dissatisfied with the response, or lack thereof, but doesn’t push it. His last point had only validated Enjolras’ inescapable musings of Grantaire’s vitriol, and he stays on Enjolras’ mind long after the conversation has ended. 

\---

Marius joins them after a couple of hours, gangly limbs jagged and awkward as he spreads out on the second sofa after spending a few minutes clinging onto the kitchen sink, taking desperate sips of water from a glass. He closes his eyes but offers an occasional sentence or two in their conversation, and smiles weakly at Courfeyrac’s jokes. 

The episode they’re barely watching finishes, and their phones make an array of noises all at once.

 **alphabet soup  
** Fleury: @Coucou let me in  
Fleury: LET ME INNNNN

Courfeyrac laughs as he moves to get up and Combeferre moves with him.

“I’ll let him in, I need to head off anyway,” Combeferre says.

Enjolras notices Courfeyrac’s face fall a little.

“Oh. Okay,” he nods, “We can watch the rest of this tomorrow?”

Combeferre had very obviously not cared much for the show, but his smile is genuine when he nods back. “Sounds good.”

They collect Combeferre’s things and he says his goodbyes with Courfeyrac following him to the door. He leaves it unlocked and busies himself with refilling their glasses, singing to himself as usual, but his enthusiasm is stifled. Enjolras sighs pointedly as he returns with their drinks.

“You still haven’t asked him?”

“What?”

“You know what.”

Courfeyrac pouts as he sits back down. “I’m still figuring it out—”

“You figured it out at _Christmas_ , Courf,” Enjolras raises his eyebrows. 

“You nearly cried when he gave you those tickets,” Marius pipes up.

“It was a sold out show!”

“You _did_ cry when he _finally_ left after he spent like, three days here.”

Enjolras looks from Marius to Courfeyrac and emphasises his ‘I told you so’ expression, gesturing with a hand to punctuate Marius’ point.

Courfeyrac’s face struggles. “I can’t believe I’m being lectured by two hangovers.”

“You’re dodging the conversation.”

“ _Yes_ , I am,” his pitch climbs, “You’re not giving advice! You’re just berating me!”

“We’re not berating you,” Enjolras says, incredibly aware that he and Marius are perhaps the worst people to offer romantic advice to anyone, especially in their current respective states. However, on this occasion, Marius takes him by surprise.

“Just talk to him,” he says gently, and before Courfeyrac can interrupt, “You’re holding off on a good thing.”

He looks at Marius intently, and then at Enjolras, who smiles softly as he nods in agreement. “It’s just hard,” Courfeyrac mumbles.

“I know,” Enjolras says, “But you’ll be happier once you ask. Trust me.”

Behind him, the apartment door opens a fraction, and Feuilly sticks his head in through the gap before entering fully.

“Hey!” he calls out, Enjolras and Courfeyrac returning the greeting as Marius waves. He sets his backpack on the dining table and walks over to them, stopping with his hands on his hips and smiling at Marius. “Rel wants you to apologise to his favourite shirt for drooling on it.”

Marius’ eyes go wide with worry. “What?”

“Don’t sweat, I’m just kidding,” Feuilly laughs. 

“I drooled on him?”

“Yeah, when he carried you here bridal style.”

Enjolras briefly smiles to himself at the mental picture before remembering that his journey home hadn’t been dissimilar, suppressing a shudder as Marius grimaces.

“Oh, yeah,” he mumbles, then seems to suddenly recall more about the previous night and looks stricken again. “How’s Grantaire today?”

Enjolras glances up at Feuilly to find him looking back, shrugging simply. “Bossuet didn’t seem too thrilled when I spoke to him, so I imagine he’s just as bad as you right now.”

Courfeyrac briefly studies Enjolras’ face, which he tries to ignore, and seems to decide against revisiting their earlier conversation in favour of changing the subject. “You brought food?”

“Yeah!” Feuilly says with enthusiasm, fetching his bag and unzipping it. “Croissants. I baked them this morning.”

Enjolras’ stomach rumbles as he realises he hasn’t eaten anything substantial today, and he bites back a moan. “We don’t deserve you, Feuilly.”

“Mm, maybe you don’t,” he grins, “Or maybe I’m simply here to raid Courf’s vegetarian charcuterie collection.”

Courfeyrac practically runs to the kitchen. “On it!”

\---

Sunday passes by in a similar fashion. Enjolras makes his own way to Courfeyrac’s place and spends the day lounging on the couch, paying far more attention to the TV than he’d like to. The last of the hangover had dissipated overnight, but something inside him still stings, and the company is safely mind-numbing.

Jehan shows up unannounced and squeezes in between Combeferre and Enjolras; no one cares enough to point out Marius’ monopoly on the second sofa, and he doesn’t seem to notice. Enjolras is wilfully distracted by Jehan’s outlandish whispered attempts to fill in the blanks of the plot he’s missed, and smiles with him when he nudges his side to point out Combeferre dozing against Courfeyrac’s shoulder.

When it finishes, Courfeyrac puffs his lips. “Well. That was trash.”

“Yeah.”

“Yep.”

\---

Grantaire is silent online for days. He reads the group messages in good time, but doesn’t respond, and doesn’t post anything elsewhere. Enjolras knows that he’s done this before, almost habitually during their university years, but it had become a rare occurrence over time. In this instance it feels different — it feels intentional, and it drills an irritating void into Enjolras’ head.

He doesn’t expect Grantaire to message him, but every time his phone sounds he finds himself checking it quickly. (The mental dots don’t connect yet, and so each time he finds himself confusedly frustrated.)

It’s on one such occasion that Enjolras accidentally opens a message from Adrien far too eagerly as he nears the end of a day in the office.

A: Are you free after work today? x  
E: Sure, what’s up? x  
A: Wanna grab coffee? x  
E: Sounds good x

He follows the directions Adrien sends to a nearby café where he’s already waiting; they hug in greeting, but Adrien doesn’t press a kiss to his cheek, and Enjolras is relieved to sense where this is going.

The relief quickly turns into a resurgence of guilt as they order and make small talk, and Adrien doesn’t wait to take a sip before speaking.

“Sorry for being so forward last week.”

Enjolras shakes his head as he puts his drink down. “No, it’s fine. Well, more than fine, actually.”

“Yeah, I was gonna say,” Adrien smiles coyly, “It was definitely more than fine.”

“I might stretch it out to ‘good’,” Enjolras smirks.

“Yeah? We’re going that far?”

“Yeah.”

Adrien smiles wider. “Wow. Well, I’m honoured.”

Enjolras breaks into a laugh and Adrien follows, but it doesn’t last long.

“Look, I— You know where this is going, don’t you?”

Enjolras purses his lips and nods.

“I’m really sorry," Adrien starts, hands worrying around his mug, "I’ve only been here two months, and I feel like I’m still learning this city, and what I’m here for. It’s overwhelming. And intense.”

“I know the feeling.”

“Yeah? So I’m not the only one?” He looks slightly hopeful, and Enjolras shakes his head reassuringly.

“By no means.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Adrien sighs. He bites his lip and hesitates for a second. “I think I rushed myself by asking you out. You know what you’re doing with your life and I got excited.”

Enjolras opens his mouth to contest that point, but figures it’s not the time. He settles on a nod instead, and lets Adrien continue.

“I don’t mean to friendzone you, but I would very much like to be your friend.”

“I’m very much okay with that.”

“You are?”

“Mhm.”

Adrien nods and finally seems relieved. “I’m glad. Being with someone right now just seems to make the world slow down and speed up all at once. It’s dizzying.”

“I understand. Completely.”

“Yeah,” he reaches out and takes Enjolras' hand, “I’m really sorry, Enjolras.”

“You have nothing to apologise for. It’s been great.” Enjolras pauses. “That doesn’t sound right, does it? But I mean it. I’m happy to call you a friend.”

“Me too.”

The barista calls five minutes to closing, and they finish their drinks as they wait for everyone else to clear out. Adrien holds the door open for him as they leave, and Enjolras stops to pull his jacket on once outside as Adrien hesitates.

“Hey, Enjolras?”

“Yeah?” he turns, and Adrien smiles softly as he reaches up to fix Enjolras’ collar. 

Enjolras smiles too and it catches Adrien’s eye, resting his hands on Enjolras’ shoulders to bring him into a kiss. It’s brief, and there’s a finality to it, and Enjolras tries not to give too much as a feeling of heaviness overcomes him.

“Definitely more than fine,” Adrien says softly, with a rueful quirk.

“Definitely,” Enjolras repeats.

They kiss each cheek once, and Adrien walks away with a small wave of a hand, Enjolras watching to ensure he’s out of sight before heaving a sigh.

He can feel the burn of tears forming in his eyes and he blinks against them, looking up at the sky. Golden hour is setting in and its beauty seems mocking. The feeling that he just threw away something good permeates his brain; he thinks of the warmth he’d felt at Adrien’s touch, Combeferre and Courfeyrac unknowingly pining for each other, and Grantaire’s… everything. 

He lowers his gaze and comes back to reality before the thoughts become too much, sighing decidedly, and turning to make way for the Musain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every single goddamn time I accidentally paste the whole chapter into the chapter summary box and every goddamn time I wonder why it looks so weird.  
> Anyway, this one is a beast and I overshot my usual by about 300 words so I hope you like it. Let me know? Maybe? I don't like asking for comments but I genuinely love reading them and they help me get through it. Similarly, shoutout to Beth for talking about the boys with me and repeatedly saying she's ready for the next chapter, that really helps too.  
> Thanks again for reading, and it's onwards and upwards next time!


	6. Chapter 6

The last of the café-goers are leaving the Musain as it starts its shift into a bar for the night, and Enjolras holds the door open for a group as he enters. He catches Musichetta’s eye behind the counter, and she smiles in greeting.

“What can I get you? And how are you?” she asks pointedly.

Enjolras has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Water, please. And I’m fine, thanks.”

“Good to hear. Two secs.” 

She busies herself fetching his drink, and he realises too late that he wants to ask her about Grantaire; he’d crashed at their place after all, so she should know.

The opportunity passes in the blink of an eye and she hands him his glass, gesturing with her head. “Ferre and Courf are in the back room.”

“Thanks.”

He takes a sip as he walks down the narrow corridor and attempts to pull his thoughts together in preparation.

They’re sitting in their usual spot, Courfeyrac deeply engrossed in a story Combeferre is telling him, making small but wild gestures with his hands. Courfeyrac laughs at something; Combeferre’s eyes light up brightly, and Enjolras feels his thoughts come undone again.

He doesn’t have time to recompose himself before Combeferre notices him and waves, and Courfeyrac turns with a renewed smile.

“Hey!”

“Hey.”

“You’re pretty late, we thought you weren’t coming,” Courfeyrac says, grabbing a chair from the empty table behind him and dragging it over to Enjolras. 

“Thanks. I was with Adrien.”

They both perk up but he can tell his tone has confused them.

“I didn’t know you were seeing him today?” Combeferre half states, half asks.

“No, he texted me. Asked to go for coffee.”

Their expressions turn to restrained pity. He’s grateful he doesn’t need to say the words, but he hates it all the same.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you okay?”

“God, I’m _sick_ of people asking if I’m okay,” Enjolras snaps before he can stop himself, jaw clenched and the fingers of his free hand curling around thin air. He only realises his knuckles are tight around his glass as Courfeyrac quickly takes it from him and sets it on the table.

Combeferre doesn’t react to the outburst, keeping his expression soft but firm. “You’re sick of it because you’re not okay.”

Enjolras scrubs his hands over his face to dodge their eyes and ignores the statement. “I was gonna do it anyway. It didn’t feel right. He just beat me to it.”

“But you’re still allowed to be upset by it,” Courfeyrac adds. 

“I know.”

“And are you?”

Enjolras looks at him and instantly knows he’s defeated. He nods, and Courfeyrac doesn’t hesitate in pulling his chair closer and wrapping his arms around him. Combeferre does the same, leaving the opposite side of the table empty as he puts an arm around each of them and leans his head against Enjolras’.

“Sorry for snapping,” Enjolras says into Courfeyrac’s shoulder. 

He feels Courfeyrac nod and Combeferre pulls away, rubbing his hand down Enjolras’ back softly. 

Courfeyrac pulls apart too, offering a small smile. “It’s okay.”

“I just—” Enjolras swallows back a lump in his throat, “I just feel like I’m going to be alone forever.”

“You’re twenty-six,” Combeferre says flatly, and Courfeyrac smiles wider.

Enjolras frowns. “So I can be upset but not too upset?”

He regrets the words as soon as he says them, knowing he sounds like a pouting child. None of them, Enjolras included, have had much patience for childish whining since they _were_ children.

Courfeyrac raises his eyebrows as he takes a sip of his drink and side-eyes Combeferre, who Enjolras can tell is rolling his eyes as he speaks.

“I didn’t say that. If you were anyone else, I’d let you wallow in it for as long as you want. But you’re you, and I know you’ll feel like a fool if you indulge yourself in this ‘woe is me’ attitude for too long.”

Enjolras stares at his hands, defeated again and now also ashamed, but Combeferre continues with a reassuring pat on his back. 

“You sought us out tonight instead of going home to sit alone with your thoughts, and I think you know why. That’s a good thing.”

Courfeyrac puts a hand on his shoulder and rubs his thumb soothingly. “You won’t end up alone. There’s some poor sod out there who can meet you trick for trick—”

“I don’t believe in soulmates.”

“—and _besides_ , you’ve got us.”

Enjolras looks between them and nods. The extended physical contact sends a shiver down his spine and the feeling overwhelms his ability to find the significant words he wants to say. “I know. Thank you,” he manages weakly.

“It’s okay,” Combeferre nods. “But we won’t sleep with you on the third date.”

Enjolras holds back a smile and looks at him with sad eyes. “What about the second?”

Courfeyrac grins. “Maybe the fourth, if you’re lucky.”

\---

The next day the Metro is stuffy, teetering on the verge between bearable and overheating. There’s a handful of free seats throughout the carriage, but Enjolras stands, leaning against a bar near the door as he skims through a long read on his phone. It vibrates suddenly, and he has to do a double take as he reads the notification.

 **R** **  
**Photo

He immediately forgets the article’s existence and taps to open the message. It’s a picture of Enjolras, right now from behind — he turns his head with a frown.

Grantaire is sitting a few metres away, far too upright to be casual; he raises a hand in greeting but instantly looks like he regrets it when Enjolras meets his gaze. 

He looks ragged. The circles under his eyes are the darkest they’ve been in ages, his stubble now almost a beard, wiry and unkempt.

He clambers out of his seat, slinging his backpack over his shoulder, and Enjolras openly considers him as he curves past strangers to make his way over. He keeps his arm straight as he grabs onto the same pole as Enjolras.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“You on your way home?”

“Mhm.”

Grantaire points at Enjolras’ headphones as he switches them off. “Audio book? Podcast?” He steals a look at his phone screen as it lights up. “Oh, music?”

“Yeah.”

“Didn’t have you down as the music type.”

“It’s a short journey.”

They stand in silence as the train lurches to a stop and Enjolras gets off, Grantaire a half step behind him. He purposefully walks fast, overtaking and dodging tourists and dawdlers, and it takes a concerted effort for Grantaire to keep up. Enjolras doesn’t want him to stop following, rather preferring to keep him in tow to prove some sort of point, though he’s not quite sure what that point is.

He keeps up the pace as they ascend into the fresh air, and Grantaire manages to fall into stride beside him. 

“Can I say something?” he asks.

“Sure.”

“I’m sorry. For calling you easy.”

Enjolras slows slightly and looks across at him. He doesn’t know what his own face is doing, or what he’s even trying to express, but it confuses Grantaire.

“What?”

Enjolras shakes his head and says the first thing that comes to mind. “I think you pissed off Courf more than me.”

Grantaire nods. “And Jehan.”

“Jehan?” Enjolras frowns.

“Yeah, he was pretty pissed with me.”

“I didn’t tell Jehan what you said?”

“Well, someone did, and he wasn’t happy.”

Enjolras sighs and speeds up again, the feelings he’s been chewing over the past few days bubbling and fuelling him. Grantaire is undeterred.

“I know I shouldn’t have said it—”

“Look,” Enjolras interrupts, “I don’t care that you said it, and I know that you know you fucked up. I _care_ that you even thought it, and then spat it at me like that, and I just—” he stops abruptly and grabs Grantaire’s arm, halting him and forcing him to meet his eyes, “ _Why_ did you say it?”

It knocks the air out of Grantaire, and Enjolras can feel his own intensity matched in the level of shock on Grantaire’s face.

He shakes his head helplessly and shrugs, glancing at Enjolras’ hand on his arm before looking back up. “I can’t— I don’t know.” His eyes search Enjolras’ desperately, as though willing him to realise something. “I was j— It just. Came out. I’m sorry, Enjolras, I am.”

It sounds like a beg, and Enjolras suddenly feels awful. He stops glowering, which he hadn’t realised he was doing, and frowns, at himself rather than at Grantaire. 

He nods, dropping Grantaire’s arm. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Grantaire presses. 

“No, it’s not, but it is,” Enjolras says, exasperated. “We’re okay. We’ve both said worse to each other.” He tries not to cringe at the thought, but Grantaire doesn’t seem to notice.

“Okay,” he says slowly, dragging his hand through his hair, “So you didn’t get shitfaced because of me?”

Enjolras can’t stop his mouth from dropping open, and can’t stop the half-lie that comes falling out. “No. That was something else.”

“Oh.”

The mention of the night itself jogs Enjolras’ memory as he starts walking again, slower this time. “Have you apologised to Marius?”

“Yeah, I messaged him on Sunday. Saturday was a write-off. _You’re_ concerned about him?”

“On Sunday?”

“Yeah?”

“He didn’t mention it.”

“It’s Marius,” Grantaire shrugs. 

Enjolras huffs. “So you could text him but not me?”

Grantaire looks at him thoughtfully, but Enjolras can feel the implicit eye-roll. “I got him drunk. I insulted you. Would you have accepted a text apology?” 

He wets his lips. “No.”

“Exactly. I knew I needed to do this in person. I know how to pick my battles.”

Enjolras shoots him a look.

“Well. Most of my battles,” he corrects himself. 

It’s Enjolras’ turn to rake his hand through his hair, tousling it with his fingers as he shakes his head. “You could’ve messaged and asked to meet up, but you just... waited to bump into me? It’s been a week.”

“I know. I… I know.”

“And you quit that Apollo shit years ago. Please don’t bring it back.”

Grantaire raises his hands in reassurance. “That just slipped out. I’m not bringing it back.”

“Good.” Enjolras feels the tension that he hadn’t noticed in his shoulders ease, relieved to have all the questions that’ve been spinning in his head for the past week answered. Almost all, he realises. “Where’ve you been all week? Your Instagram followers must’ve missed you,” he says, softening the accusatory tone of the question.

Grantaire half smiles — he has the largest following of any of them on his public account. “No art to post and no memes to post. Like I said, you weren’t the only one who got shitfaced. I think you got away lightest, out of the three of us.”

“That bad?”

“Mm. It wasn’t pretty.”

“That girl was.” Enjolras says it neutrally, but his eyes widen as his brain catches up with his mouth, horrified. “I mean— I—”

“I… can’t say I remember that part very well,” Grantaire says, badly hiding his shock, and what Enjolras thinks is a lie.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Why not? I’d hope she was pretty, for my sake. Do you even know what pretty women look like?”

Enjolras smiles slightly, thankful for Grantaire’s natural ability to babble. “I think I do?”

“I don’t believe that.”

“No, neither do I.”

They reach Enjolras’ building and he walks up to the door without a second thought, but Grantaire slows to a stop a few feet behind him, glancing up the street.

Enjolras opens the door and turns to him, confused. “What’s up?”

“I can come in?” His voice sounds small, his expression open and vulnerable, trying not to hold out hope but hopeful all the same. It makes Enjolras feel terrible — again.

He nods and makes an effort to speak softly. “Of course.”

Grantaire pulls a face, grateful but composing himself, yanking his guard back up. He shakes his head suddenly, taking a step back. “Actually, I probably shouldn’t. You just finished work, you don’t need me in your space pestering you.”

“No,” Enjolras says quickly. “Stay. Talk. If you want to, I mean. I could use the company.”

“But _my_ company?”

“Yes.”

Grantaire sways forward slightly.

“Oh, just get inside,” Enjolras sighs. He walks in, holding the door, and doesn’t need to say it again.

\---

Enjolras cooks dinner to share, and they easily return to the same comfort of the mornings after Grantaire’s stays, sitting cross-legged opposite each other on the couch. They talk about the terrible show Enjolras had watched at Courfeyrac’s, Grantaire claiming it’s his favourite — “Didn’t you say that about that other show a couple weeks ago?” “Yeah. What’s your point?” “Nothing.” — and Enjolras is grateful to have one stress off his mind.

There’s silence for a moment as Enjolras checks his phone, and in the corner of his eye he can see Grantaire chewing at his lip. When he finally speaks, the flow is jilted, some words curt and others dragging.

“So, tell me about Adrien. When are you seeing him again?”

“I’m not.”

“You’re not?”

Enjolras shakes his head.

“How come?”

“We called it off.”

Grantaire looks at him confused. “How come?” he repeats.

“He only just moved here, he’s still getting used to it all. Bad timing.”

“Oh.”

Enjolras puts his phone down, folding his arms. “And I— I don’t know.”

“What?”

“He was too… nice for me.”

“Too _nice_?” Grantaire raises his eyebrows incredulously, “What does _that_ mean?”

“I don’t know. Amicable, I guess?” Enjolras shrugs, “Courf said it sounded like we were on the same wavelength. I think maybe I don’t need the same wavelength.”

Grantaire drops one eyebrow.

“What?” Enjolras asks.

“You’re thinking that deep after three dates?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“You did only have sex, right? Like, he didn’t propose to you or something?”

Enjolras blinks as he quickly remembers why he doesn’t want to talk to Grantaire about that part, and very quickly tries to push it out of his mind. He certainly doesn’t want to humour any jokes about marriage right now either, he thinks.

“No, no he didn’t,” he mutters.

For once, Grantaire reads his tone and drops it. He glances at his phone. “I should probably go,” he says, shifting in his seat. “Got stuff to do, stuff to not do.”

Enjolras regrets his bad turn, but sighs and nods anyway. “Okay.”

They both stand, Enjolras leaning against the arm of the couch as Grantaire grabs his shoes and pulls them on, standing awkwardly once he’s finished. 

“You interrupted me earlier,” he says. 

Enjolras looks at him. “I did?”

“Yeah. I was saying I know I shouldn’t have called you easy,” he puts a hand up to stop Enjolras’ interruption, “No— You’re doing it again, just listen, please. I barged into that conversation. I upset you over something I wasn’t even meant to know and I had no good reason. I’m sorry. I know you knew all that but I had to say it.”

Enjolras hadn’t wanted the subject to be revisited; Grantaire can’t possibly understand how inextricably linked he is to his night with Adrien, and why his reaction had particularly affected him, but he has to admit that hearing the full thing makes him feel better — perhaps he shouldn’t have interrupted before, he thinks.

“I appreciate it,” he says, sincerely. “Thank you.”

Grantaire holds his gaze for a moment before exhaling loudly, rubbing at his neck and grabbing his bag. “Man, feelings suck, huh?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras sighs, pushing off from the couch and trailing Grantaire as he walks to the door. 

“Well,” he starts, “Thanks for having me.”

“Thanks for staying.”

He smiles that lopsided smile again, and Enjolras puts a hand on his shoulder, leaning in to briefly press their cheeks together, his lips lightly brushing the soft skin above Grantaire's stubble as they pull apart. He thinks he hears Grantaire’s breathing hitch, but he doesn’t allow Enjolras the time to check.

“Bye,” Grantaire blurts out, turning to make haste for the stairs, leaving Enjolras’ hand to drop pathetically.

Enjolras pushes the door shut and lingers there. He’s not sure what came over him. He and Grantaire had dropped the pretence of parting gestures soon after they became acquainted, but surely that hadn’t been too forward?

He shakes his head as he sits back down. Forward isn’t the right word — forward would imply wanting something, and he doesn’t want anything from Grantaire.

There’s a pounding in his chest as he spends the rest of the night ignoring the conflicting question to that statement. He climbs into bed when he’s unable to concentrate on anything else, and finds himself lying awake, staring at the empty space next to him until his eyes can no longer stay open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooo this one fought me and I'm not entirely sure I'm happy with it but I needed to get it out there. I've been procrastinating by skimming the brick again (and crying over it) and over the past couple days I somehow managed to get this up to 2.8k. I guess aiming for a max of 2k per chapter is going out the window huh?  
> Anyway, thank you so much for all your comments on the last chapter, I still can't believe that people actually like this so I spent the day after uploading just reading and rereading what people had said. If anyone is too nice, it's you guys, so thanks again.  
> It's nice to have Grantaire back after his brief disappearance, and there's even more of him coming up, so look forward to that.


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning, Enjolras is quietly happy to see a post from Grantaire appear at the top of his Instagram feed, complimented by an overlong story that was posted at 3am. He watches the entire thing.

\---

“Courf, _arrêtez_.”

“No, it’s Courf _eyrac_.”

“I don’t care, just stop it.”

A long moment passes. Courfeyrac lifts his hand again. 

Enjolras ducks away from him. “I said _stop_.” 

His hair is scraped back into a small bun at the nape of his neck, the curls that evade capture tucked behind his ears. Courfeyrac has been poking at the bun for five minutes.

“You know I can’t help it, it’s ridiculously tiny.” 

Their attention is taken when Bossuet finally takes a shot on the pool table, potting no balls and almost potting the white. 

“Ah, shit,” he mutters, handing the cue to Joly with a shake of his head.

They’re playing doubles, Joly and Bossuet against Enjolras and Feuilly, the former pair being unable to play one on one without helping each other out. Grantaire had intervened years ago, declaring them bad entertainment as he called for team matches, and gradually their games had gotten increasingly convoluted, with teams occasionally reaching six a side. Those are the times when the atmosphere in the Corinthe is buzzing, half of them roaring in victory and rousing enthusiastic attention from the other patrons. 

Right now, the first floor room is busy but relaxed, the others having a lively but quiet conversation reclining around nearby tables.

Enjolras can only sigh at the bad setup that Bossuet has left him to face. He circles around, scanning all angles and settling on the least bad option, which calls for a low lean across the table.

“Now that’s a sight for sore eyes,” Courfeyrac teases.

He hears a small pop as Grantaire pulls his bottle away from his lips in a rush to speak. “Tell me about it,” he says.

Enjolras manages a successful shot, and when he turns to round the table again he sees the pair grinning at him, Courfeyrac leaning his elbow on Grantaire’s shoulder. Despite not wanting to encourage further comments, the sight makes him smile — Grantaire had awkwardly apologised to Courfeyrac last weekend and their tift had been swiftly resolved, slipping back into their usual ways as though nothing had ever happened.

“Tell me,” Bossuet starts, gesturing with his drink, “Which of us has the best ass?”

Courfeyrac, Joly and Grantaire say “me” in unison. Feuilly laughs.

“Okay, you’re not allowed to say ‘me’,” Bossuet sighs.

“Then I say Grantaire,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras misses his second shot by a small margin and huffs, passing the cue to Feuilly.

Joly hits Grantaire’s leg with his cane as he stands for his turn. “I was actually going to say you, but now you don’t deserve it.”

“You can’t deny the truth, my friends.”

“I think I’m being criminally underrated here,” Feuilly says with fake disbelief, “I spend hours on that bike every day and for what, my ass to be ignored?”

“He makes a good point,” Bossuet says, looking to Grantaire with a challenge.

“Hm, point noted.”

Joly effortlessly pots a ball before glancing up. “What about you, Enjolras? Any opinion?”

“Does Enjolras have an opinion? Is water wet?” Grantaire quips.

“Oh, ha-ha,” Enjolras retorts, taking a sip of his drink as he takes the seat beside him; Joly and Feuilly are actually good at pool, and there’s a high chance he won’t need to have another turn.

Grantaire looks at him for a long moment. “You’re genuinely considering it now, aren’t you?”

Enjolras nods. “Of course.”

“Do tell.”

He thinks for a few seconds. “I agree, I think Feuilly deserves more recognition. Courf is undeniably up there—”

Courfeyrac grins and leans over Grantaire to pat Enjolras’ head.

“Typical,” Grantaire mutters.

“— _and_ ,” Enjolras continues, feeling his pulse quicken (the alcohol? but he’s been nursing the same glass all evening), “I also have to agree with you.”

Grantaire coughs on the reverb of his drink. “ _Me_?”

“What? I’ve agreed with you before.”

“You’ve never said I have a nice ass before,” Grantaire’s eyebrows dart high behind the curls falling on his forehead, and Enjolras is suddenly aware of the other four sets of eyes on him.

He looks between them all for backup but they just chuckle. Enjolras can’t see the joke. All he can do is shrug.

“Yeah, well…”

“Here’s my two cents,” Courfeyrac jumps in; he meets Enjolras’ eyes, still smiling, but Enjolras knows that he’s being deliberately and mercifully saved. “I’m vouching for the underdog ass here: Monsieur Pontmercy.”

Marius’ brow furrows as he looks to his name. There’s a symphony of “no”s from around the pool table; Marius’ confusion turns to concern, and the symphony descends into laughter.

\---

They rejoin the others after the game — Joly and Bossuet had won after Joly found a rhythm in a streak of perfect alignments, and Feuilly had been left to half-heartedly pot their team’s final two.

They break into different conversations, dipping in and out of others as the evening goes on. Enjolras is listening to Bahorel and Cosette discussing the particulars of a local court case that had piqued their interest when his phone rings in his pocket.

It’s late for a cold call, he thinks, and frowns as he checks the screen. No caller ID.

He excuses himself and heads for the stairwell, swiping to answer as he descends.

“Hello?”

“ _Enjolras_?”

He stops dead in his tracks.

“No—” he starts, before repeating it harder into the microphone, “ _No_.”

He cuts the call.

He glances back at his friends to see if anyone is watching — they aren’t, and so he dashes down the stairs and through the room onto the street.

The cool air hits his skin and he bristles, suddenly hyperaware of his body: the clamminess of his hands, the blood in his cheeks, the air in his lungs convulsing—

“Enjolras?”

He flinches at the sound. It’s Grantaire — Enjolras had forgotten that he’d seen him slip away a few minutes ago. There’s a cigarette dangling from his lips, and Enjolras’ eyes fixate on it.

“Can I have some of that?”

Grantaire plucks it from his mouth and passes it over; it’s barely out of his hand before Enjolras latches onto it.

He leans back against the building, but if anything his muscles only tighten, and his fingers shake against his lips as he breathes out.

“What’s wrong?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras shakes his head. 

There’s a brief hesitation. “So you can admit you like my ass but not tell me what’s wrong?”

A strange sound chokes its way out of Enjolras’ throat and his mouth slips, half from panic and half blindsided by the joke. “My parents.”

Grantaire frowns. “Your parents?”

Enjolras shakes his head again and gasps a breath. 

“What about your parents?” Grantaire presses. 

“Nothing— It’s nothing,” Enjolras says, bringing the cigarette back to his lips. He barely feels its effects. 

He hears Grantaire exhale slowly, thoughtfully. “Look at me.”

Enjolras looks. Grantaire’s eyes flicker around his face, and Enjolras can’t comprehend his expression, can only think about how he can still see the gold flecks in his eyes even in twilight.

Grantaire finally speaks after what seems like minutes, but was likely only seconds. “Do you wanna go home?”

“Yes,” Enjolras nods. “Yes. Please.”

\---

Enjolras stirs, and wakes, turning, and his knee briefly bumps against Grantaire’s thigh. It’s warm.

He pulls his arms free of the duvet and wipes at his face. His eyelids are heavy, eyes stinging like nettle, but he knows sleep has decided to evade him. 

“Enjolras?”

He looks in Grantaire’s direction. He sounds far too alert for someone who should be sleeping.

“You awake?” he continues.

“Not awake,” Enjolras mumbles, settling in again, away from his gaze. 

They had walked to Enjolras’ apartment in silence, Grantaire watchful but forbearing. Enjolras had crawled into bed as quickly as possible and Grantaire had joined, scrolling on his phone as Enjolras fought to relax his body beside him.

He can only manage five more minutes before rubbing at his eyes again. The clock tells him it’s just past one, so he’s managed a couple hours of sleep at least, though it hadn’t been restful, more an exhaustive void. 

“You don’t seem very not awake.”

Enjolras exhales. He turns again, this time to face Grantaire properly – if they’re both awake he should have the courtesy to address him. (Can you ignore the comforting presence — the _guest_ you invited into your own bed?)

Grantaire meets his eyes in the dark. “Man, you look tired.”

“Yeah, I feel it.”

“What’s wrong? You haven’t been right for, like, weeks now.”

“It’s nothing.” He starts to roll over once again but Grantaire suddenly touches his shoulder, lightly, but it has the same effect on Enjolras as though he’d pressed him down onto the mattress. “Get off me,” he says reflexively.

He’s disappointed when Grantaire listens and removes his hand. 

“You… You said I wasn’t the reason you got hammered a couple weeks ago, and tonight you mentioned your parents?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t.”

Enjolras looks at him, shocked and slightly offended that he’s being entirely reasonable. “So, what? I’m meant to just lie back and tell you my problems? Like some sort of therapy?” he asks, trying to bite, but there’s an edge to his voice and he knows Grantaire hears it.

“Yeah,” he says plainly, sincerely.

Enjolras can’t win. He glances away to look at the ceiling in exasperation.

“And you’ve gotta clasp your hands, like they do on TV,” Grantaire adds.

Enjolras knows it’s a joke but does it anyway. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, unable to find the words, and struggling to come to terms with the fact that someone — _Grantaire —_ is finally dragging it out of him. 

“Is it easier if I ask questions?” Grantaire offers.

Enjolras nods. “Please.”

“You mentioned your parents?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you don’t speak to them?”

“I don’t. But they’ve been trying to speak to me. Well, at me, I suppose.”

“How come?”

“They’re getting divorced.”

Grantaire is silent for a short moment. “And that's what's upsetting you?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

It’s a pointed question, and as Enjolras turns his head to question him the movement sets a tear free to run down his face. He quickly averts his gaze to the wall behind Grantaire.

“No, I’m not sure,” he sighs a small shaky laugh and looks back to the ceiling, scrubbing his face. “They keep messaging me. Emailing. My work and personal emails. They found my Facebook, somehow. They both followed my public Twitter and Instagram. He phoned me, just now, I didn’t realise, I answered, I— I can’t escape. I don’t know what to do.”

Grantaire sits up as he begins to speak faster, and ghosts his hand over Enjolras’ arm, which he’s now pressing onto his forehead.

“Enjolras,” he murmurs, grounding him, “Have you told _anyone_?”

He shakes his head.

“Fuck.”

The duvet on Enjolras' chest feels constricted and he drags himself up, sitting hunched, trying to breathe, trying to _think —_ now that it’s out, a million thoughts are spinning in his head; somehow Grantaire plucks out all the right ones.

“You don’t want to block them?” he tries.

“I—” Enjolras laughs thickly at himself, “I’ll feel bad.”

“You will?” 

“Yeah. I felt bad for months after I cut off contact. But—”

“I— Oh.”

“No, you go.”

“I thought you were okay when that happened?” Grantaire ventures, “You seemed to take it in your stride.”

Enjolras shrugs. “I guess I did, but that’s how I got through it. I know the whole ‘you’ve gotta love and respect your family’ is a societal thing, but I'm not immune to it. It still got to me and made me feel, I don’t know…”

“Like shit?”

“Yeah. Yeah, like shit,” he manages a weak smile. “Plus I guess everyone knew what was happening back then. I could talk about it if I wanted to.”

“Weird how they don’t know this time.”

Enjolras sighs heavily. He deserved that one, he thinks, but he’s glad Grantaire tells it straight without pity.

“Do you know why?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras frowns. “Because I haven’t told anyone?”

“No, not that. I meant why they’re getting divorced.”

He finds himself rolling his eyes. “They’ve hated each other for as long as I can remember, so yeah, I think I know why.”

Grantaire's eyebrows knit together. “If that’s the case then why now?”

“That’s it,” Enjolras bites his lip harshly, “That’s what I’ve been asking myself. Why not when I was a kid? Why did I have to grow up watching that? And what, now they’ve forgotten all the things they said, and did, and they want me back to pick a side? It’s pathetic.”

“It was that bad when you left?”

“Yeah.” He thinks of the things they’d called not just him, but Combeferre and Courfeyrac too; a heat rises in his chest and his breathing threatens to destabilise again.

“Hey, forget that, we don’t have to talk about that,” Grantaire reassures firmly. “We can stop, if you want?”

Enjolras breathes deeply and shrugs helplessly as he looks at him. “I don’t know.” He feels weary and tired again, but he can’t just drop it. Grantaire seems to be thinking the same thing.

“I still can’t believe they thought you were straight,” he offers.

“Mm. I think they had suspicions? But nothing they were actively worried about. They thought I was waiting to get all the academics over with before finding a nice girl to settle down with.”

“Even hearing you say those words is creeping me out.”

Enjolras smiles and scrunches his nose. “I know.”

Grantaire picks at the sheets and looks at him hesitantly. “Do you… Do you feel better?” 

“Yeah,” he nods, before realising that it’s true. “Yeah, I do. Thank you.”

Grantaire nods too. “It’s okay. Just— Do me a favour?”

“Yeah?”

“Tell Ferre and Courf tomorrow. You’ve done the hardest part. Telling them will be easier and you’ll feel even better.”

“You think?”

“I know,” Grantaire says surely. “I still painstakingly drag myself to therapy every month. I can’t pretend I haven’t learnt anything.”

Enjolras hums. “I should probably go to therapy too, right?”

“Probably.”

He closes his eyes and sighs, letting his head fall back as the full force of exhaustion hits him. He can worry about that tomorrow, he decides. 

He shifts and turns to readjust his pillow, and something moves at the nape of his neck. He reaches up to it and his hand brushes Grantaire’s hand, and— Ah. His small, ‘ridiculous’ bun has somehow remained intact throughout the night, having forgotten to fix it amidst his rush to ignore the world.

He sighs and rolls his eyes as he drags the hair tie out. “Don’t start copying Courf’s antics, please,” he mumbles, pulling it back up into a looser tie on top of his head before lying down. 

Grantaire follows suit and settles back in. “But he’s right, it _is_ too tempting.”

Enjolras smiles across at him genuinely, a warmth running through him when Grantaire smiles back. “Goodnight, R.”

“Goodnight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh we got deep with this one.  
> I've been sitting on most of the last scene for weeks now so I'm glad to finally post it, and on the opposite side of that, shoutout to Beth again for jumping at the idea of a tiny Enjolras manbun which spurred me to write 1k of this in one day this weekend.  
> I've spent the rest of my time writing even more chunks for future chapters and actually managed to plan out the next few, so we're officially no longer winging it (!) and I'm really excited for the next few beats. I think you'll like them.  
> As always, thank you for the comments, and I'll update asap!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief description of homophobic parents.

Exhaustion lasts for too long or not long enough, with no perfect in between, Enjolras finds. 

He wakes as the sun rises, still facing Grantaire, and watches him sleep for a little while. His eyelashes are short, but thick and dense, his skin sparsely scattered with dark beauty marks and a few pale acne scars. He takes long deep breaths, and Enjolras finds himself breathing in sync and relaxing, but becoming hyperaware of himself at the same time. 

He slips out of bed and takes a cigarette and his ashtray from the bedside drawer as quietly as possible, crossing the room to open the window.

“You owe me half.” 

Enjolras has to turn to check he’s not hearing things. Grantaire is now lying on his back, a hand half pressed on his forehead and half on his eyes. 

“Wanna share?” Enjolras asks quietly, not entirely certain his mind isn’t playing tricks on him. 

Grantaire’s hand drops from his face and his voice is thick with sleep when he speaks again. “Yeah.”

He makes an ordeal of rolling out of bed, eyes barely open and hair a mess, and intuitively fumbles for his lighter from his jeans on the floor; Enjolras had never replaced his own, using matches the few times he’d needed it at home.

They sit on the floor by the open pane, and Enjolras passes the cigarette over to Grantaire to light; he puts it to his lips and speaks around it.

“You should quit this, you know.”

Enjolras makes an active decision to not challenge him. “I know.”

“Joly barely stops himself from killing me for it. Christ, Ferre would kill you.”

“Why do you think I begged you not to tell him specifically?”

“Mm, I’m just saying.” He flicks the lighter and holds it to the end of the cigarette. “Get some nicotine patches or something, they’re good.” 

Enjolras scoffs. “You do realise the irony here?”

“Listen,” he starts, taking a quick drag and passing it to Enjolras, ”It’s easy for you, you do it so rarely you’ll be fine, and you’re stubborn enough to succeed.”

“And you’re not stubborn?”

“I’m stubborn against my own good.”

Enjolras can’t deny that. There’s silence as he finally takes his first drag — and it doesn’t feel as good as it does in the height of stress. It’s hard not to focus on the moist feel of the paper left from Grantaire’s lips.

“You could vape?” he offers, handing it back.

Grantaire gives him a deadpan look. “I’m not vaping unironically.”

“Well, then, go cold turkey with me.”

Grantaire's eyes sting with something unreadable as he looks away and shakes his head. “No. No, I’d fail, you wouldn’t. I can’t do that.”

“How do you know that?”

He exhales a rush of smoke with what Enjolras can tell is more force than intended. “Because it’s me, and it’s you. Don’t pretend to be oblivious about this.” He holds out the cigarette without looking at Enjolras.

He takes it and frowns. “I’m not pretending anything. If you fail, you start again. If I fail, I start again. That’s all it is. No pressure, no promises.” He breathes out, long and thoughtful, and speaks again when Grantaire doesn’t. “We just try, together, and maybe it’ll be easier.”

Grantaire watches warily as Enjolras taps some ash away, making no affirmative noise or action. Enjolras tilts his hand, offering the last drag to him; Grantaire looks hard at it, scratches at his lips, and Enjolras sees the moment he makes a decision.

“No,” he shakes his head once, resolute. “You can have it.”

Enjolras smiles. He stubs the cigarette in the ashtray.

They both watch as a thin wisp of smoke trails up from it, before it’s dashed by a gentle breeze.

Enjolras sighs and gazes out the window; the opposite rooftops are bathed in a warm glow, the curtains still drawn as the inhabitants sleep. He likes sunrise, but generally hates any circumstances that force him to see it. Given the situation, he supposes this one is much better than it could’ve been.

“Don’t be disappointed with me,” Grantaire murmurs.

Enjolras turns to him. Grantaire is still, staring out the window as though he’d never spoken, but Enjolras knows that staring isn’t always seeing.

He tells him the truth. “I never have been.”

Grantaire looks at him. He doesn’t smile or nod, but the rebuttal that Enjolras had expected doesn’t come, and that’s enough. 

\---

They give up the ghost of sleep and settle on coffee and a light breakfast. Joly phones Grantaire, disgustingly early, Enjolras thinks, but Grantaire is unphased by what must be a regular occurrence. He’s just off night shift at the hospital, and Grantaire grimaces as he accepts his offer of grabbing breakfast with him — or rather, supper, for Joly.

When they say goodbye at the door, Grantaire leans in to press their cheeks together, properly this time — his skin smells like coffee, paint, coconut — and takes his time to turn away.

“Enjoy second breakfast,” Enjolras calls after him.

Grantaire rolls his eyes with a rueful smile. “I will.”

Enjolras watches as he bounces down the stairs, one arm raised with a wave, and then he’s gone.

He curses as he reaches for his phone two minutes later, realising he’d forgotten to say something.

E: Thank you again, I really appreciate it  
R: no problem  
R: anytime  
E: Same for you  
R: i know  
R: remember that favour x  
E: I know x

It takes all his strength to resist the urge to make a second coffee, and he lightly dozes on the couch as he waits for a reasonable hour to message Combeferre and Courfeyrac. 9am seems good enough.

 **libertrois**  
Enj: Can you come over today?  
Ferre: What time?  
Courf: You feeling better?  
Courf: R said you weren’t feeling well last night  
Courf: And yeah I’m free  
Enj: In an hour?  
Enj: Yeah I’m fine I’ll explain  
Ferre: Can do  
Ferre: @Courf I’ll walk your way?  
Courf: Cool cool

The hour passes excruciatingly slowly and Enjolras tries to whittle it away with chores, but it doesn’t distract from the breathlessness that creeps in each time he glances at the clock. It peaks when he hears Courfeyrac’s voice in the corridor outside, and vanishes the instant Combeferre opens the door. 

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Combeferre holds something up and shakes it. “Your jacket.”

Enjolras huffs and shakes his head at himself — it had completely slipped his mind last night. He watches quietly as Combeferre hangs it up. “Thank you,” he mutters. 

“Very irresponsible to leave it,” Courfeyrac says, “Éponine wanted to use your card to buy a round. We voted on it.”

“Courf voted yes.” Combeferre doesn’t need to roll his eyes for Enjolras to smile.

“Excuse me? Article 24, ‘ _le scrutin est secret_ ’?” Courfeyrac puts on his best lawyer voice and shoots a look at Combeferre before smiling too. “We compromised and bought nachos with it.”

“You could’ve bought drinks, I don’t mind.”

“That’s why we didn’t. Blowing your money isn’t fun if you just shrug at it.”

Enjolras smiles again. He knows this would’ve taken place only after they knew he was home safe. “Grantaire messaged you?” he asks.

“Yeah, not long after you left.”

“What did he say?”

Combeferre blinks and his eyes narrow slightly for a split second. 

“Just that he walked you home,” Courfeyrac shrugs, but they both look like they’re making an effort to not turn it into a big deal. (Why should that be a big deal?)

Enjolras nods, and they simply wait for him to speak again. He clears his throat before he even knows what words are going to come out. “I… I’m not okay.”

“We know,” Combeferre says. 

Enjolras looks at him. “But you don’t know why.”

“No, we don’t,” — Courfeyrac puts a hand on his arm, and Combeferre guides them to the couch — “But we’re here.”

Enjolras looks between them and takes a deep breath.

They sit, and they talk.

\---

Enjolras decides that talking fucking sucks. He repetitively reminds himself that it sucks a lot less than not talking at all. 

He shows Combeferre and Courfeyrac the messages, emails, requests, and they try not to look horrified, but don’t succeed.

Courfeyrac phones his parents to question if they’d passed Enjolras’ new number onto his father, the sullen look on his face as he listens to the answer confirming their suspicions. 

Combeferre offers to block them for him. Enjolras declines — he wants to do that, _needs_ to do that, himself, in time. 

Eventually, when the worst is over, they fall into talking about their school days at home in Valence, and it’s oddly comforting. None of them would say they were their happiest times, but they were still happy nonetheless, and embarrassing and awkward and _funny_. Enjolras occasionally wishes they could’ve shared those days with their current friends, but when Combeferre plucks vivid, mortifying stories from thin air, ones that Enjolras had blissfully managed to forget, he considers himself lucky it was just the three of them.

They leave after a few hours; Combeferre has essays to mark, and Courfeyrac had promised Marius they’d catch a movie together. He asks Enjolras if he wants to tag along, but he wants to be alone — until he doesn’t.

\---

E: You free?  
R: yup  
E: Can you come over?  
R: sure  
R: takeout?  
E: Please  
R: what do you want?  
E: Surprise me  
E: Bring nicotine  
R: xx

\---

“I brought nicotine pizza and margherita patches.”

Enjolras smiles with relief as Grantaire walks in, food in hand.

“What do you want first, patches or pizza?”

“Patches,” he says quickly. 

Grantaire gestures with his head. “In my bag, front pocket.”

Enjolras sets to digging around for them as they climb the stairs, finding the box and pulling one out hurriedly. He peels the paper back off and slaps it onto his arm. Grantaire pulls a face.

“They’re not as instant as the real thing, y’know.”

“I don’t care, they’re something.”

Enjolras takes the pizza boxes off him as they enter the apartment, and he’s suddenly starving at the smell. He sets them down on the coffee table, throws cushions from the couch onto the floor and sits on one.

“How did it go today?” Grantaire asks, stripping his jacket before joining him on the floor.

“Awful. Good, but awful.”

“Good. Awful is good.”

Enjolras taps at the patch on his arm as he grabs a slice. “How’ve you been?”

“Fine,” Grantaire nods, “I’m a sucker for it when I’m drinking, or hungover, or down— You get the gist. It won’t stay fine for long, but I stocked up on patches. You can keep those ones.”

Enjolras hums. “How was the rest of your day?”

“Oh, you know, same old,” Grantaire shrugs.

“Tell me,” he prompts.

Grantaire considers him and chews for a few seconds, then launches into his tales of the day, and Enjolras listens as he devours his share of the food, swiping the few pizza crusts Grantaire can’t manage to finish.

He lies down, appetite sated, feeling content for the first time that day, when he sees Grantaire glance at the messages still open on his laptop.

“You can read them, if you want,” he offers.

Grantaire hesitates, but pulls the laptop toward himself anyway. “You keep their emails in your junk folder along with these totally legitimate viagra and ‘dating for sex’ emails?”

“Mm. Only the important things go to junk.”

“Of course, of course,” Grantaire smiles. 

It’s quiet as he starts skimming them, slowly becoming hooked into reading them thoroughly, a frown gradually deepening on his brow. Enjolras watches, but doesn’t look for any kind of reaction. He’s startled slightly when Grantaire breaks the silence.

“So, the first time I saw you smoking, that was because of them?”

“Yeah.”

“And… and when I made that joke about Adrien proposing and it didn’t land—”

“Yeah.”

Grantaire puffs his lips. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, you couldn’t have known. It was just,” Enjolras taps his head, “This.”

“Mm. Have you thought any more about therapy?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“Yeah. I’ll go. Ferre and Courf mentioned it too.”

“Good, that’s good.” He pauses for a second. “Do they know that I know?”

“No, but I said they can tell people, I don’t mind,” Enjolras shrugs, “You were right last night, I shouldn’t hide it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You meant it.”

“Yeah, well…” Grantaire trails off. He looks back to the laptop and goes to close the tab, but does a double take on something. “Wait, this says he would put you back in his will. He took you out of it?”

“They both did,” Enjolras nods, “And made me incredibly aware of it.”

“Oh my god.”

“They threatened me with legal action too.”

“ _What_?”

Enjolras raises his eyebrows and nods again, but smiles a little. “There was no actual case, of course. They said I’d stolen from them. They put money aside for when I was twenty-one, and I took it all out when I was twenty-one. Not theft.”

“Not theft but a genius move,” Grantaire adds. 

“Thanks.”

“That’s why you waited til then to come out?”

“Mhm.”

“I always wondered. You seem like you’d do it as soon as possible. But—”

“But I knew that money would help me stay in Paris.”

“And away from them.”

“And with my friends.”

Grantaire smiles, and Enjolras returns it. “Hell of a thing to tell them you’re gay and bounce with their money in your pocket. I respect that,” he nods, deep in thought for a second before he continues. “You don’t have to tell me, but what happened?”

Enjolras’ smile turns rueful. “They were throwing this birthday ‘party’ for me,” he puts his hands up with air quotes, “Just their usual networking shit. Their friends and their kids, people I don’t know, and Ferre and Courf.”

“Sounds like a blast.”

“Mm. They kept introducing me to girls all night, showing me off, making a point out of it. I snapped. I came out in front of people. In front of one of the girls, actually. I was going to tell them that night anyway, but alone. Definitely not like that.”

“What did they do?”

“He dragged me out of the room. We argued. They said I’d caused a scene — I mean, I had, but not one of my usual ones." He pauses for a moment, trying not to let the memory get too vivid. "They… Not that they didn’t believe me, I could see they knew as soon as I said it, but they didn’t _want_ to believe it. She slapped me.”

Grantaire meets his eyes with a question; Enjolras points at where he knows there’s a small scar high on his cheekbone, near his eye and pale against his skin, turning to the light as Grantaire leans down to look closer. His heart skips at the proximity.

Grantaire’s finger brushes over it. (Another skip.) “ _Shit_. How?”

Enjolras grimaces as he sits up. “One of her rings. Ferre cleaned it up, put a couple of stitches on it.”

“It needed _stitches_?” Grantaire's voice climbs an octave.

“Dissolvable ones. It wasn’t too bad.”

“Enjolras, that’s—” He stops to blink, disbelieving. “That _is_ bad. You’d say the same for anyone else.”

Enjolras nods his head slowly. “I guess I would,” he concedes.

“You know you’re gonna have to drag all this back up in therapy?” There’s a touch of humour to Grantaire's voice, but the look on his face is soft, warm — Enjolras sighs and leans forward, pressing his forehead on Grantaire’s bent knee.

“Do I have to?”

Grantaire rubs his shoulder lightly. “Yeah, you do.”

He pulls up and Grantaire’s hand slides away; Enjolras notices the goosebumps on his own arm a second too late, ignoring them, and looks at Grantaire with a wary smile.

“You’ll be fine,” Grantaire hums. “Trust me.”

“I do.”

Grantaire nods, then closes the laptop tab with a finality. “So," he starts, moving on, "That money is how you got this place?”

“No, I rent this. I rented at Courf’s place before here.”

“Shit, I forgot about that. Didn’t his grandmother own it?”

“Kind of. She was still paying the mortgage when she died. Courf pays it now, I think he’ll own it pretty soon. We both paid rent to her. She knew he was serious about living here so she left it to him.”

Grantaire’s brow furrows but there’s a glint in his eye. “So you were effectively chipping in to buy his place?”

“A worthwhile investment,” Enjolras smiles. 

Grantaire breathes a laugh before cogs start turning in his head. “Wait, so, does Marius pay rent now?”

“Nope. Just bills.”

“God,” he huffs, “I wish I’d fallen into Courf’s lap on my first day at uni.”

“He paid a little when he crashed on the couch for the last couple months I was there.”

“I really can’t imagine how you coped living with Marius of all people,” Grantaire grins when Enjolras pulls a face, “Were Courf and Jehan still together then?”

“Mm. Yes and no. They broke up before graduation but Jehan definitely ‘visited’ a few times,” Enjolras quirks an eyebrow.

Grantaire looks thrilled at the scandal of it. “ _Ah_.”

“ _Yeah_. They’re both loud. Jehan’s not too bad, but Courf is _loud_ loud.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

“No, I know,” Enjolras rolls his eyes. “There’s nothing like coming home from work, starving, trying to make dinner and hearing your best friend get fucking railed.”

Grantaire's face contorts with something like shock and he throws his head back with laughter. His skin flushes darker and he wipes at his eyes, giggling uncontrollably, and Enjolras can’t help laughing with him — full and unbridled, a weight lifting from his mind.

“You need to gossip more,” Grantaire says eventually, still pawing tears from his face, “You paint a good mental picture.”

Enjolras laughs again and makes a note to do just that — being the source of Grantaire's laughter has its own rush to it, something he can't quite name, but something he definitely wants to repeat, again and again and again.

\---

Later, as Enjolras is on the verge of sleep, Grantaire starts chuckling beside him. Enjolras elbows him between the shoulder blades; Grantaire just laughs louder.

“You’re an asshole,” Enjolras groans, but laughs all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Four days between updates isn't a new record for me but considering this is the longest chapter so far I can definitely say I'm surprised with myself too. I had a lot of this written so it was mainly a case of sewing it all together, and I got excited to update twice in one week again.  
> To asingerofsongs, I hope you're feeling better, and I hope the email notification for this cheered you up again. People, plural, are actually subscribed to this? Wild. Thank you so much!  
> Next update soon, and comments welcome as always.


	9. Chapter 9

“Enjolras? Enjolras?”

Grantaire whispers gently, as though he doesn’t want to wake him, despite the fact that he is very clearly trying to.

Enjolras blinks his eyes open; Grantaire is looking at him, propped on one arm, his face slightly apologetic. “What?” Enjolras asks, voice hoarse, squinting as he tries to meet his eyes.

Grantaire’s expression changes, softens. “Hi,” he smiles. 

“Hi.”

Grantaire stays like that for a moment before he shakes himself. “Where did you put the patches?” 

“The drawer, behind me,” Enjolras mumbles.

“Thanks.”

He settles back in as Grantaire gets up and rounds the bed quietly; there’s the distant sound of the bedside drawer being opened, and after a long second Grantaire huffs a laugh.

“Wow. Can’t say you’re unprepared, huh?”

Enjolras cracks his eyes open again and turns to look up at him. “What?”

His lips are quirked into a teasing smile. “Can I borrow some of this lotion?”

The question only confuses Enjolras more, the remnants of sleep still clogging his brain, and he opens his mouth with a frown. “Wh—” he starts, before things click into place, and he rolls his eyes closed with a groan. He shouldn’t have let Grantaire fetch the patches himself. 

Grantaire takes the groan as an admission of guilt, as though the drawer contents aren’t damning enough, and laughs, the sound ringing out of him softly. Enjolras scrunches his face and scrubs at it as Grantaire begins to reel off a list:

“Patches, painkillers — standard stuff, nothing to see there — lotion, tissues, condoms, lube, _two_ types of lube actually…” He pauses and picks something up, brow furrowing. “Sleeping pills?”

Enjolras can only be glad those are what he questions first — he figures the rest needs no question, but Grantaire is the type liable to drag an answer out of him anyway.

“They’re relaxants,” he waves off, “I’m pretty sure they’re just a placebo effect.”

“Yeah, these ones are shit,” Grantaire agrees, “The parent thing?”

“Mm. Either it exhausts me or it keeps me awake.”

Grantaire hums, returning the bottle to its place and drumming his fingers on the drawer lip. “Well, the rest of this certainly sounds like a good night of debauchery — without the painkillers, of course. Nothing wrong with a bit of pain,” he waggles his eyebrows.

Enjolras exhales heavily. “They’re for _headaches_.” 

“Headaches like me?” Grantaire smirks as he takes two patches and replaces the box.

“Exactly like you, yes,” Enjolras nods, “Though nothing seems to get rid of you,” he adds, scolding but fond.

As if to prove his point, Grantaire climbs over his legs with complete disregard, settling in to sit cross-legged at the foot of the bed.

“So,” he starts, sticking on one patch after the other, “Can I get some of that lotion, or..?”

He lets the question hang in the air and Enjolras glares at him, shaking his head in reaction rather than in response, but failing to fight back a smile.

“What? My hands are dry,” Grantaire grins. “That’s what it’s for, isn’t it? Dry hands?”

Enjolras dares to breathe a small laugh. “I hate you.”

Grantaire holds his gaze and grins wider. “I’m sure you do.”

\---

Enjolras gradually comes around as Grantaire gradually hunches, slouches, eventually becoming horizontal again, crawling back under the covers as Enjolras decides to get up.

He snakes his arms around his pillow and buries his face in it. “Do we need to leave soon?” he sighs.

“No,” Enjolras confirms softly, but stares hard at the pillow. “I’m working from home today.”

Grantaire lifts his head, looking mildly surprised. “You are?”

“Yeah. They keep telling me I should do it more. No better time to,” he shrugs, and Grantaire gives him a sorry smile. 

“You okay?”

Enjolras sighs and stops himself to consider the answer seriously. Everything isn’t okay — too often he’s found himself compulsively checking his emails and message requests despite the sheer sense of dread it fills him with, but right here, right now—

“Yeah,” he nods, “I’m okay.” He’s relieved that for the first time in weeks it’s not a lie.

Grantaire seems to sense that fact and nods, satisfied that it’s the truth. He pulls a hand free from the pillow and lifts it — Enjolras isn’t sure how he knows what Grantaire is doing, or how he naturally responds to it, but he takes his hand (not dry, he notes), and squeezes when Grantaire does.

Neither are the first to let go, but Enjolras watches as their arms drop from each other. “You stay there, go back to sleep,” he murmurs, somehow pulling himself away.

“Careful,” Grantaire warns playfully, “I might overstay my welcome.” He wraps his arm back around the pillow and relaxes into it anyway.

“Never,” Enjolras says under his breath.

He turns to leave the room, and doesn’t see Grantaire lift his head again to watch after him.

\---

It’s late morning by the time Grantaire emerges from the bedroom — Enjolras hears a dull thud, and there’s two long minutes before the door creaks open. He’s wearing a pair of Enjolras’ jersey shorts, and throws him a sleepy but well-rested smile and a thumbs-up as he heads to the kitchen. 

He makes coffee, nabs the last pain au chocolat Enjolras had left for him, and sits on the sofa, silently flipping through one of the books on the coffee table as Enjolras works. After some time he takes a loud final sip from his mug and kicks his feet up, giving in and pulling the book onto his lap to read. 

Enjolras has been sat staring at a paragraph he’s written for far too long when Grantaire breaks the silence.

“What are you doing?”

“Working,” Enjolras replies distantly.

“Yeah, no shit, _what_ are you working on?” 

“Workshop material.” He doesn’t take his eyes off the screen, and Grantaire sighs loudly, pointedly. 

“Come on, take a break. Let’s go out.”

“Out?” Enjolras frowns, managing to tear his eyes away.

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know, just out,” he shrugs obviously. “To stroll is Parisian, and all that bullshit.”

Enjolras considers him for a moment and glances back at his laptop screen. He sighs, closing it. “I feel like I should be concerned about how easily you’re swaying me to do stuff.”

Grantaire’s eyes light up as he swings his legs back off the couch. “We’re going?”

“Yeah, come on. Show me how to stroll.”

\---

They walk for a little while, aimless, taking twists and turns down streets one or the other has somehow never seen. Enjolras tries to make mental notes of all the small shops and cafés that look interesting, but gives up after so many pass by; he recognises some names and figures Feuilly must deliver for them, and resolves to message and ask him later.

They end up near the Seine, the flow of the water cooling the thick air of the city and coaxing them down onto the riverside. Grantaire quickly sits on a bench just as it’s vacated.

He pulls his legs up and crosses them, facing Enjolras head on as he joins him. “Twenty questions?” he asks.

Enjolras smiles slightly to himself at the memory. “Sure,” he says, pulling his knees up to rest his arms on them.

“Any questions answered?” Grantaire's lips twitch with something suspiciously unreadable, and Enjolras scrutinises him for a moment. He’s sure he’ll regret this.

“Any.”

Grantaire smiles. “When was your first time?”

He regrets it.

“Did you at least consider a neutral question before asking that?” Enjolras raises his eyebrows.

“I did consider it,” Grantaire raises a finger, somehow wiping the smile off his lips but keeping it in his eyes, “And I considered against it, because that would just be wasting a question.”

Enjolras shakes his head and smiles against his better judgement. “You’re impossible.” 

“You either answer that or you explain every item in that drawer to me, in detail. I think I’m being merciful here,” he shrugs and raises a hand in his defence.

Enjolras can’t help but laugh and it startles Grantaire. “You act as though I’m not a normal adult. _Of course_ I—” he cuts himself off, biting his tongue.

“Of course you what, Enjolras?” Grantaire grins, “What do you do?”

He wets his lips and stops himself from biting at them. “Of course I masturbate,” he finally concedes. 

A large group of people walk past closely and they both turn to glance up at them; Enjolras sighs in relief when they don’t appear to understand French, and Grantaire breaks into full-bellied laugh.

Enjolras shakes his head. “I don’t see why it’s such a big deal, it’s normal,” he reiterates.

“Well, firstly, there’s nothing normal about you, so jot that down,” Grantaire points as though Enjolras has paper he should be taking notes on, “But secondly, yeah, you can’t say you don’t come off as, I don’t know, kinda celibate?”

Enjolras shrugs. “It’s my own business.”

“I mean, yeah, I know that, but the only time I’ve seen you even kiss someone was years ago at some shitty student party, and it was Jehan of all people.”

“We were drunk,” Enjolras tries to excuse himself, but realises that it only serves to prove Grantaire’s point.

“Exactly,” he starts, “Even Ferre got publicly cosy with that boyfriend of his back in uni. Remember him?” he asks, as though he’d forgotten until he’d said it.

Enjolras nods; he does remember, but also generally forgets about him until he’s mentioned. Combeferre hasn’t dated anyone since, so it’s easy to let the memory slip.

“Yeah,” he says, “I think they still talk actually.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. As friends, though, not like that.”

“Obviously. He’s occupied with Courf now,” Grantaire says, matter-of-fact.

“ _You_ know about that?” Enjolras frowns at him, and Grantaire shoots him a frank look.

“ _Everyone_ knows about that. It’s obvious.”

“Oh,” he blinks. He shakes his head as he thinks about it. “I didn’t realise. Ferre only talks to me about it. Courf talks to me and Marius.”

“Our resident matchmakers,” Grantaire smiles wryly.

Enjolras grimaces. “I know. They have no hope if they keep talking to me.”

Grantaire hums in agreement, thoughtful but amused. “You’ve derailed this pretty well but my question still stands, you know.”

Enjolras sighs loudly.

“Come on,” Grantaire prods. “Your first time. We tell all our embarrassing stories while you just sit there and laugh. I think that’s pretty unjust of you.”

Enjolras bites the bullet at that. “Fine. I was twenty-one. It was—”

“Oh, let me guess: ‘it was nothing special’?” Grantaire imitates his accent and raises his eyebrows.

“Actually I was going to say ‘absolutely mindblowing’,” he says, dripping with sarcasm.

Grantaire laughs briefly before turning a shade more serious. “Why do you brush it off like that? You’re allowed to enjoy sex.”

“I _do_ enjoy it,” Enjolras starts, then thinks on his words, alarm bells starting to ring in his head. “I just… don’t want to shout about it.”

“That’s… interesting,” Grantaire settles on.

Enjolras tilts his head. “What about you?”

“Hm?”

“Your first time?”

“Ah,” Grantaire purses his lips for a moment. “I was seventeen. I lasted like, two minutes, but he didn’t seem to mind. First time with a girl was a few months later and she _definitely_ minded.”

“You don’t say.”

Grantaire smiles to himself before his face drops, serious again. “I’m better at it now,” he clarifies.

Enjolras can’t stop himself from grinning and teasing further. “I’m sure you are.” 

Grantaire winks emphatically, and they both laugh. 

“Body count?” he asks when the laughter dies down.

Enjolras rolls his eyes but decides not to bother fighting against Grantaire’s perseverance of the topic. “Up to an impressive four now.”

“God, really?”

“What?”

Grantaire shakes his head. “I’m surprised but I’m not.”

Enjolras frowns. “What does that mean?”

“Lots of things,” Grantaire starts, “If I knew you by looks alone I’d be more surprised. Guys practically throw themselves at you. You could get whoever you want, whenever you want. And you _know_ that. You should be absolutely flaunting it, but you just… don’t?” It’s more of a pause than a question, and he briefly looks deep in thought, then shrugs it off. “But, I do know you, so. It’s not surprising.” 

Enjolras isn’t used to the habits of his love life being read down to a T; Combeferre and Courfeyrac get the details and encourage his rare endeavours, but, almost surprisingly, there’s never this much analysis. _Correct_ analysis, he thinks.

He bites his lips together. “I won’t argue with that.”

“I feel like I should be concerned about how little you’re arguing with me lately,” Grantaire flashes a teasing smile. “Also, where did you hide them all? I didn’t know about any of them.”

“I don’t ‘hide’ them. I just don’t tell.”

Grantaire chuckles to himself. 

“What?” Enjolras asks. 

“Not telling is exactly the same as hiding, so don’t bother trying to kid yourself on that one.” Enjolras opens his mouth to argue but Grantaire cuts him off, distracting him. “And I’ll save you a question, I don’t know my body count.”

“Brag about it.”

Grantaire looks at him incredulously. “You heard what I just said, right? Whoever, whenever? You don’t get to complain.”

“And you do?” Enjolras scoffs.

Grantaire taps at his nose. “If I chose,” he intones — something they’ve all heard countless times when more often than not he refuses to introduce himself to the people he eyes up.

Enjolras smiles at the reference. He knows Grantaire isn’t about to elaborate further, and sensing his first chance to properly steer the conversation, he takes it. “My turn?” he asks.

“Sure.”

He considers his words carefully for a few moments, looking out across the river, and Grantaire eyes him as he waits. “How do you find beauty in the world? If you don’t believe in change, where does the beauty come from?”

Grantaire whistles lightly. “So you’re getting deep, huh?”

“Is that deeper than sex?” Enjolras looks at him.

“Depends on the sex.” He scratches at his chin when Enjolras doesn’t respond to the joke, awaiting his answer, and then sighs. “I do believe in change, so to speak. Of course the world changes. It has changed. It is changing. I’d just be plain ignorant if I didn’t recognise that. I just don’t believe things change the way you think,” — he drops the shoelace he’d been fiddling with and looks up — “Or thought? You’ve changed. Don’t get me wrong, you could be an asshole before, but your heart has always been in the right place. And I believe in that. I don’t believe in everything you say, or everything you believe, but I believe in you.”

Enjolras’ gaze had wandered Grantaire’s face as he spoke, but now it snaps back to meet his eyes. “You do?”

“Yeah, I do.” His expression is sincere, and he wets his lips in consideration before continuing. “You’re on the right track now. You’re only an asshole when you need to be.”

He punctuates it with a small smile, but Enjolras is too taken aback to respond.

“As for art, well,” Grantaire looks at the river, “There’s always beauty in nature. It’s easy to capture that, and to capture aesthetically beautiful things. Can’t go wrong with the city skyline, really. Instagram eats that shit up. It’s not completely hollow, of course, I couldn’t do it if I didn’t care. But when it comes to capturing people, it’s that heart.”

Enjolras isn’t sure what compels him to speak, but it comes out before he can stop it. “You have that heart too.”

“No—”

“You do,” he says firmly.

Grantaire huffs. “I’m not trying to change the world like you guys though.”

“You might not be trying, but you’re still doing it. Having heart changes things. You know what you’re about and where you stand. You come to the meetings—”

“I sit and drink and doodle in the corner.”

“—and you _listen_ ,” Enjolras stares at him with the emphasis. “You might not believe in everything we do, but you’re there with us. We believe in you too. _I_ believe in you. And if that’s the only thing out of my mouth that you’ll ever believe, then I’ll take it.”

There’s a long moment before Grantaire nods. He locks eyes with Enjolras, fleeting, looking away with another nod, his leg bouncing. Enjolras has to refrain from reaching out a hand to still it. 

They’re silent for a few minutes, people-watching — Enjolras thinks back on his words, combing through and ensuring clarity was in them, and then on Grantaire’s words. They repeat over and over, until—

“Can I borrow that book?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras nods. “Sure.”

Conversation continues, as does their stroll, and the atmospheric shift between them doesn’t go unnoticed by either. 

\---

Enjolras’ dreams are vivid that night. Most are senseless and don’t linger, but one; he kisses someone fervently, hands in his hair — full, thick curls — holding him close, pulling him closer, desperately, he needs him closer. He brings a hand down to hold his face, thumbing over stubble, and whoever it is pulls away for a breath. He opens his eyes—

—and wakes. 

He’s aware of his disappointment first, and then of his heart racing, pounding against his ribs, and his chest aches from it. He sucks in a breath and breathes out slowly, once, twice, letting his pulse slow to a non-frantic speed. It eventually subsides, and he breathes a sigh of relief as he checks the time; 5am, too early, thankfully.

He turns onto his side, thoughtlessly reaching for the spare pillow and pulling it close beside him to wrap his arms around it. He buries his face into it — the sweet smell no longer lingers, but rather permeates it.

He falls asleep instantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another doozy for ya.  
> This is the first chapter which is fully just the two of them and it has some of my favourite moments so far. It's a challenge to write so much conversation but I quite like it and I hope you do too.  
> Similarly, just a quick side note, I edited bits and pieces of chapter eight after upload, even as late as the day before uploading this — mostly just some wording changes that won't be noticed, but I wasn't fully happy with some stuff and felt I had to do it. It's a process, after all.  
> Into the double figured chapters next time! Scared but optimistic. Again, thanks for reading and see you then!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some nsfw content.

The same dream recurs in flashes for over a week. Sometimes they’re fleeting — tongues crashing, hot and searching, and it leaves Enjolras agonised, starved; and sometimes they seem to last for hours — slow, tender, his fingers roaming and tracing a face he swears he knows, and he wakes overwhelmed.

He never sees who it is; opening his eyes almost always leads to him awakening, though he occasionally manages to remain in the dream for a few seconds only to catch a glimpse of an indecipherable blur of colours. He’s not sure how he knows there’s a particular face there, rather than a figment of his imagination that simply means nothing, but he _knows_ , and it’s torture. 

Some nights pass by with no dreams at all — merciful, he thinks, only for the following night to see it repeated twice or more, barely changing except for increasing intensity. 

He mulls them over as he showers, and they’re forgotten by the time he’s at work, but remnants resurface and linger in the quieter moments. He sticks a nicotine patch over them; it simply fills a different void. 

\---

At the office, talk flies over Enjolras’ head as he refines a workshop plan.

“So we’ve got fifty pieces, and forty of those are covered for graphics and illustrations.”

“Right.”

“And I was thinking of getting some extra artists to cover those last ten. Like big online artists, ones people will know?”

Enjolras’ ears prick. Each year they release a zine of essays, features and art from activists that’ve been on their workshops or training programmes: advice pieces, personal pieces, covering both successes and failures. For its fifth year, Léa — head of marketing, determined and brilliant — had suggested a published book, and one fundraiser later they’re here.

“Do we have the budget?” Natale, a workshop lead, asks.

“Sure.”

“Then go for it.”

“Yeah,” Léa hums, then makes a start, “Yeah, we should. I’ll draw up a list of people I follow, send over any you think of too. I’ll contact them.”

Enjolras tends to keep away from marketing, leaving it to the experts, but finds himself jumping at this. He grabs his phone as he stands, his concentration having disappeared in the blink of an eye. 

“I’m heading out for lunch, I’ll be a while,” he says, gathering the rest of his things.

“Everything okay?”

“Yep,” he nods, typing as he walks, “Just call if you need me.”

“We won’t.”

He smiles in response and hits send on the message as he steps out of the office, and there’s a reply by the time he’s down the stairs.

E: Where are you?  
R: club w rel  
R: ???

\---

Enjolras has visited the boxing club before, dropping off flyers or waiting outside for Bahorel, but has never properly looked in on a session. He brushes past a couple of instructors he thinks he’s met before chatting in the entryway, returning their hellos, and pulls open the door to the main hall. 

He’s seen the gym in photos and videos, but in person it’s larger than expected, open and well-lit with high ceilings, the air close but clean — likely Bahorel’s doing, for someone who coaches every day he makes a point of always smelling good. Enjolras notices Bahorel and Grantaire sparring in the ring before taking in the others around the rest of the room, practising against pads or punch bags, and some of them look at him curiously.

He turns his attention back to the centre of the room as Grantaire dodges a hit and lands a couple of his own, his feet quick and nimble as he moves. His eyes briefly meet Enjolras’ and he does a pronounced double take, allowing Bahorel the perfect opportunity to land a swing to his face. The force sends him backwards and Enjolras has to stifle a laugh.

Bahorel tuts and flashes a cocky grin. “Eyes on the prize, R, come on,” he scolds, muffled through his mouth guard.

Grantaire shakes his head breathlessly and gestures to Enjolras as he walks further into the room, and Bahorel turns.

“Oh, hey! What are you doing here?”

“Being a distraction,” Enjolras smirks as he looks at Grantaire.

He rolls his eyes in return and closes them as he catches his breath. He’s wearing a loose drop-arm vest, his muscles glistening with sweat under the bright lights and flexing as he leans back against the ropes. Enjolras doesn’t let his gaze linger for as long as he finds himself wanting to, tearing it away to look back up at Bahorel, who grins, but doesn’t seem to notice a thing. 

“Oh, so you’re not here to sign up to kicking R’s ass whenever you want?”

“Not today, no,” he smiles. 

Grantaire scoffs at Bahorel. “As if you don’t beat the shit out of me enough?”

“Oh I’d love to do it more, but I’m only one man,” Bahorel says, then gestures for Enjolras to move closer, “Here, if you ever change your mind Enj, I’ll give you some pointers: he’s easily distracted, he leads with his right but his left is his strongest — I have a solid theory as to _why—_ ”

Grantaire cuts him off by shoving at him; Bahorel barely moves, and turns to raise his eyebrows at him. 

“You wanna try that again?”

Enjolras smiles and shakes his head, interrupting before things can descend further. “Hey, listen, do you wanna grab lunch?”

“Ah, sorry, can’t,” Bahorel says, “Leading a session in ten.”

“No problem. Grantaire?”

He nods. “Sure,” he says, biting off the strap of a glove, “My shame isn’t gonna recover from that last hit today.”

“Next time I’ll make sure your shame doesn’t recover at all,” Bahorel points a warning hand at him. 

“When don’t you?” Grantaire mumbles, swinging under the ropes and jumping down. He pulls off his gloves and head guard, and bends down to grab his water bottle from the floor — the movement briefly exposes more of his chest, also covered with a sheen, and Enjolras stares again. He looks away just in time as Grantaire turns to him after a long drink.

“I gotta shower real quick, I’m disgusting.”

‘Disgusting’ is absolutely not the word Enjolras would use, but he doesn’t say that, barely registering that he even thinks that. “No rush.”

Grantaire disappears into a side room and Enjolras settles by the main door, watching Bahorel wrap up the session while he waits. As they break, Grantaire emerges, looking significantly less damp, a kit bag slung over his shoulder. There’s a flurry of goodbyes called after him, and he grins with a dismissive wave when someone says they’ll get him back next time. 

“Ready?” Enjolras smiles. 

“Ready,” Grantaire nods, then shouts over his shoulder, “Cheers Rel!”

“Bye Rel!”

“Catch you later!”

Grantaire holds the doors open for Enjolras as they make their way out, stopping once on the pavement to check for something in his bag. “So,” he starts, “Where are we going?”

Enjolras shrugs. “I don’t mind.”

Grantaire narrows his eyes at him. “You came to ask us to get lunch with nowhere in mind?”

“I trust your judgement,” he says, ignoring the fact that this probably hadn’t been a well-thought-out plan. “And I came because I’ve got something for you. Well, not an actual physical thing— I’ve got a commission. Possibly.” This definitely wasn’t well-thought-out.

“Oh?” Grantaire blinks. “Cool. I know a place. This way.”

\---

He leads them to a small café nearby — it’s narrow but cosy, with barely enough room to fit their entire friendship group inside, let alone seats to accommodate them. Grantaire drops his bag on a chair at the window table before they order food at the counter, and Enjolras glances back up at the menu when the barista asks after their drinks.

“Two of the usual,” Grantaire cuts in, smiling when Enjolras throws him a questioning look. “Just stretch that trust a little further, you’ll thank me.”

Enjolras raises his eyebrows but goes with it, and reaches for his wallet a split second before Grantaire.

“No, I’ll get this—” Grantaire starts, but Enjolras taps his card before he can intervene.

“Too late. I owe you. This is the least I can do.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Grantaire huffs, then perks up, an enticing gleam in his eye, “Unless this is what you do for your commissioned artists? Wine and dine them?”

They treat their artists professionally, Enjolras thinks, and is what he would say, but something between a smirk and a smile tugs at his lips before he can stop himself. “Something like that,” he says; Grantaire’s eyebrows twitch in response, and he’s glad he said it.

He takes his receipt and follows as Grantaire sits at their table.

"So this possible commission,” he starts, tapping his fingers against the tabletop, “What is it?”

“You know our annual zine?”

Grantaire nods. “The one that’s a book now?”

“For this year, yeah. It’s that. There’s some pieces that still need illustrations so Léa’s looking for artists that might be interested.”

“Hm. Well I certainly might be interested,” he looks at Enjolras thoughtfully, and there’s something different in his eyes, unreadable but sharp. “What’s in it for me?”

Enjolras frowns as he tries to decipher the look to no avail, but holds his gaze steady. “Besides money?”

“Mm.”

“A copy of the book. ‘Exposure’ that you so desperately need with your fifty thousand followers.”

“Sixty thousand,” Grantaire corrects quickly, and then the look is back. “So nothing special? I’m just ‘one of the artists’. I see.” It’s teasing, but again, it’s different, less playful and more serious; it’s daring.

It’s possible that Enjolras has misread something, but he doesn’t question it, and simultaneously fails to question the thrill of his pulse in his neck. “I’ll buy you a special commission drink?”

“So literally wining and dining, huh?” Grantaire grins and it only serves to magnify the air about him.

Enjolras leans into it. “If that’s what you want,” he says lowly, perhaps more so than intended — there’s a spark in his head as two wires almost connect, sending shockwaves through him that arise briefly as goosebumps.

Grantaire hums and openly considers him; Enjolras’ skin continues to dance under his gaze, and he’s sure that Grantaire is reading him far easier than he’s reading himself right now, but he refuses to back down. (From what?)

He juts out his chin, only slightly, but it kicks Grantaire into a response.

“Deal,” he finally says. 

There’s no release in the word like Enjolras expects — the air stays, another spark flashes in his head, and he goes to smile when the barista suddenly appears.

They both make a start but thank him as he places their order on the table, and for a few seconds Enjolras can actually breathe again.

His eyes catch on their matching drinks and he scrutinises them for a moment. They’re iced coffees, unassuming except for some kind of chocolate syrup drizzle lined on the inside — Enjolras knows Grantaire has a sweet tooth, but he’s sure that this is pushing it just a bit too far.

Nevertheless, he follows suit as Grantaire takes a sip, watching him expectantly.

Enjolras closes his eyes. He hates how good it is. “No,” he says, shaking his head, “I won’t thank you for this. I can’t come here every day, it’s too far from the office.”

“You’ll just have to visit me and Rel more often,” Grantaire bites at his straw with a smile.

“Mm. Maybe I’ll sign up for boxing.”

“No, never mind. I’ll just keep the best coffee in Paris to myself,” he says with false woe, then frowns, “Don’t tell Chetta I said that.”

Enjolras can’t resist. “No? Well, what’s in it for me?” He folds his arms across his chest, chin raised again.

A crooked smile pulls at Grantaire’s lips and he runs his tongue along his teeth. “I’ll get back to you on that one.”

\---

The ghost of their goodbye still lingers on Enjolras’ cheeks when he returns to the office. He drops his things by his space and crosses the room, gently rapping his knuckles on Léa’s desk.

“Yes, Enjolras?” she asks, eyes fixed on her screen as she continues to type.

“Grantaire’s interested,” he says coolly.

Her head snaps up to him, her expression shocked but delighted. “ _What?_ ”

Enjolras smiles. “I said you’d email him the details. If you want him, that is?”

“ _Shit_ , yes,” she nods, opening a Twitter tab and pulling up Grantaire’s account. “I thought you said he doesn’t do activism stuff, I didn’t even bother putting him on the list— How the hell did you manage that?”

 _I have no idea_ he wants to say. “I have my ways,” is what he does say, and Léa raises her eyebrows at him as he walks away. 

He goes back to his phone at his desk, texting as he sits down. 

E: Léa’s emailing you now, keep a lookout  
R: xx  
E: X

\---

The dream starts in its usual way, mouths together, fast and breathless, and Enjolras holds onto him, whoever it is, desperately.

Something changes; a certain twist to a kiss or a certain hitch in his breath, and he moves to Enjolras’ throat — Enjolras bares it, pushing his head back into the pillow, willing, wanting. Teeth suddenly scrape against his skin, up to his jaw before sucking in, and he gasps, his hips reacting instinctively. There’s a breath of a laugh against his throat.

Enjolras knows that laugh, but he doesn’t, and he digs his nails into skin as he pushes past clothing to clutch at his back in pleasure and frustration. It earns him another pulling kiss, this time over his pulse; it drums furiously under his skin, sensitive to the touch, and he wants more, so much more, but all the words fail on his tongue except one, spilling a name before he can think about it.

“Grantaire.”

A familiar hum. 

He says it again, louder, longer. “ _Grantaire_.”

The lips move from his throat; Enjolras opens his eyes, the dream stays, and Grantaire looks back at him, cheeks flushed and lips swollen. 

It doesn’t make sense, he thinks, only for a split second, before his hand comes up to Grantaire’s face, prompting Grantaire to breathe a sigh, and it makes perfect sense.

“Enjolras,” he murmurs.

Of course it makes sense.

Enjolras kisses him again, feeling and unthinking, and Grantaire’s tongue is relentless in his mouth. He’s aware that his hands begin to wander, and Grantaire’s match, palming across his bare chest — he could’ve sworn they were clothed a second ago — and he feels Grantaire’s every muscle move under his fingertips.

Enjolras’ hand slips down. Grantaire gasps.

He bites Enjolras’ lip briefly before saying his name again, _moaning_ his name, and with it Enjolras feels like he’s being devoured.

Grantaire moves his mouth to Enjolras’ collarbone, to his chest and down, all too quickly, Enjolras thinks, looking after him to tell him to slow, and he sees Grantaire’s tongue before he feels it—

Enjolras wakes with a moan, hands gripping the sheet and a sweat breaking out on his skin. His hips grind of their own accord and he groans, realising that he’s hard and unfinished. 

He loosens his grip and sits up to search through the bedside drawer, not acknowledging the way he’s shaking, throwing the sheet off and hitching his boxers down when he finds what he needs.

His hand is listless for a minute, his brain tired and unresponsive to his usual fantasies of anonymous men in scenarios he’s never experienced, before glimpses of the dream return and replay. 

_Grantaire kissing him, Grantaire’s lips on his, Grantaire’s hand—_

Enjolras’ hand quickens pace, breath stuttering.

_Grantaire’s body on top of his, Grantaire’s teasing smirk as he dips between his thighs, Grantaire’s tongue—_

Enjolras comes with something between a gasp and a moan — there’s a brief vague thought of how he’s not usually one to make noise, before he loses himself to it fully, head back, eyes rolled shut.

It slows in waves, and his chest heaves when it stops, his head falling forward as he sits for a long moment and just breathes. He pulls himself to the edge of the bed, waiting again for his muscles to recalibrate, and then stumbles to the bathroom. 

He throws the tissue away and climbs into the shower, the too-hot water deepening his daze for a split second before returning his senses, returning _everything_ , with what feels like a slap to the face.

“Fuck!” he yells, pushing the shower head away and burying his face in his hands — he flinches away at the touch of the lotion and shoves them under the water instead, wincing as it scalds him but keeping them there and scrubbing at them. 

He shouldn’t have done that, he shouldn’t have even thought that, he thinks. (Why not?)

Grantaire is his friend, he thinks. (Is he?)

Enjolras stops scrubbing and steadies his hands on the tiles. Is Grantaire his friend?

 _Just_ , something corrects — is he _just_ his friend?

“Fuck,” he breathes shakily. “ _Fuck_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good god, finally, _something_ , ten whole chapters into this, huh? Thank you staying on board and reading this far, and sorry for the delay on this chapter. The basics were written but I have some kind of mental block on right now which I'm hoping won't affect chapter 11 too much, but we'll see.  
> Comments very much welcome, and once again, thanks for reading!


	11. Chapter 11

It was nothing. It meant nothing. It was just a dream.

Enjolras interrupts his own thoughts with another: a dream that had felt incredible to finish. 

He grits his teeth and turns his music up louder, glancing behind himself on the Metro, though for what he’s not sure. There are too many people crammed into the carriage, it’s barely half eight and it’s gearing up to be sweltering; he’s half grateful the heat clinging to his skin isn’t solely from his incessant circle of thoughts, but he knows full well that even under tolerable conditions his hand would be sweating around the pole he’s clutching onto.

He already wants the day to be over — he’d failed to check the time before what might’ve been the most stressful shower of his life, and had caught the clock tick over to 6am when he’d stepped out of the bathroom. He’d laid on the couch with his eyes closed for all of five minutes before realising the situation felt eerily familiar, and prised himself away to make breakfast and coffee — _strong_ coffee — eating lazily and drinking hurriedly as he sat at his desk doing l’ABC work, work-work, _any_ kind of work. It had been no use; the thing about distractions is that they actually need to be distracting.

Instead, he had latched onto the idea that he won’t see Grantaire until this evening, and then he can just ignore him. He’d gotten good at ignoring Grantaire’s physical presence after their old arguments — discussions, his brain says with a smile, and he shakes it away. He’s never been good at ignoring Grantaire’s mental presence, but that’s never stopped him from trying. (How long has he been trying?)

He sighs. It’s fine. He shakes himself again and wipes his hands on his jeans as he steps off the train. 

It’s _fine_.

\---

Enjolras hears him before he sees him. It’s not fine.

“Oh, wow. Exposed brick, co-working space, this definitely started out as like a hipster office, huh?”

“Oh— Hi! Nice to meet you, I’m Natale.”

“Grantaire.”

A brief moment as they shake hands, the same brief moment in which Enjolras has to lean against the printer and wish for the universe to hurl him into a void. It doesn’t.

“So, Enjolras wasn’t lying, he does know you. I thought maybe he photoshopped those pictures of his friends.”

“I don’t think he knows how to use Photoshop.”

Enjolras bites his tongue. He _does_ know that that stupid grin is plastered on Grantaire’s face right now. He hates it. He wants to see it.

He turns, forcing a nonchalant, neutral, innocent, _any_ kind of non-pained expression onto his face, and sure as day, Grantaire is standing near his desk, stopped by Natale on his way over, and yes, of course, is grinning at Enjolras.

Enjolras’ brain short-circuits as he tries to speak normally. “I know some Photoshop.”

Grantaire’s grin flickers for a millisecond and Enjolras is sure he hadn’t sounded normal at all, but nevertheless Grantaire remains upbeat. “Oh, good. I can show you some more if you do ever wanna fake pictures with me.”

It’s his regular brand of playfulness, it’s _safe_ , but Enjolras’ brain is still too struck with shock to play along. “What are you doing here?” he blinks.

Grantaire holds up a few papers, stapled together and folded, and waves them. “Signed the commission deets. I’m afraid you’re all stuck with me.”

“I wouldn’t say that’s such a bad thing,” Natale quips, an odd smile playing on their lips. 

Enjolras glances at them. He’s only ever witnessed his friends trying to flirt, to varying degrees of success, so he’s not entirely sure if that’s what they’re doing. He’s too confused by the strangeness to be jealous. ( _Jealous_?)

Grantaire doesn’t notice — or, maybe he does, but ignores it, quirking his eyebrows at Enjolras instead. “Enjolras will almost certainly tell you the opposite.”

“Will he?” Natale asks.

They both look across at him.

“He won’t,” Enjolras says seriously, finally feeling the first slightest grip of composure. He uses it while he has it and crosses the few paces to his desk, setting his papers down and crossing his arms as he perches against it.

Grantaire smiles as he addresses Natale, but keeps his eyes on Enjolras. “Always likes to prove me wrong, when he can.” 

Before Natale can respond, their phone starts ringing and they look reluctant to leave. “Nice meeting you, Grantaire,” they flash a smile at him, changing it slightly — pointedly — to look at Enjolras as they walk away.

“You too,” Grantaire says, and drifts closer to lean against the desk beside Enjolras. It’s a fraction too close for comfort — their eyes meet, and it’s out of Enjolras’ mouth before he can stop it.

“I think you like it when I prove you wrong.”

The way Grantaire’s look turns wicked is seamless. “I do. Though I can’t decide if I like it better when you prove me right.”

Enjolras purses his lips and considers him, the exact opposite of what he knows he should do; his lips, his arms, his tattoos — he’s seen Grantaire a million times before, but right now he’s reveling in Enjolras’ gaze. He hadn’t wanted to push, to encourage anything — ~~_they’re just friends_~~ — but it’s gratifying, addictive, and he wants more.

He wets his lips to speak, though what would come out he doesn’t know, as Grantaire makes a start, shifting and clearing his throat.

“So. They were, uh. Nice.” He lilts high on the last word. 

“Yeah,” Enjolras suddenly remembers where they are and swallows back his thoughts. “Yeah, they’re cool.”

“Were they… Were they flirting with me?”

So he did notice. “I think so?” Enjolras says, glancing across the room curiously. 

Grantaire looks too, his face strangely blank. “Huh. Weird. Anyway,” he shrugs it off and flicks the paper, moving to put it in his bag, “Thanks for this. It’s a good job.”

“No problem.”

“So what are you doing? Don’t say ‘working’.”

Enjolras can’t help but smile across at him. “Report writing. It’s thrilling,” he says sarcastically, leaning his hands back against the desk. Reading reports is deeply enthralling for Enjolras; writing them, not so much.

“I thought you love your job?” Grantaire frowns.

“I do, but this stuff can get a little boring.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow cockily. “Revolution is boring?”

“When it gets to actually writing out our figures and analysis it can be, for me, yes. It’s not my forte,” Enjolras shrugs. 

“Aren’t reports just the same as running your mouth but typing it up?”

Enjolras feels a few eyes on them as he shoots Grantaire a look. They’re not talking loudly, but his colleagues haven’t seen this before. (This. What is this?)

He folds his arms across his chest again. “Reports are stating facts and figures. _Running my mouth_ is facts and figures and, I’d hope, a bit of feeling.”

Grantaire nods and feigns being mistaken. “Right, yeah, how could I forget? Justice, fury, passion, ‘ _love, yours is the future._ ’ I remember.”

Enjolras’ stomach drops. He’s only ever said that once, during an off-the-cuff speech as final pre-protest preparations were being made outside the Corinthe, where Grantaire had been upstairs, _asleep_. Hadn’t he?

“So how come you’re writing this up?” Grantaire continues when Enjolras doesn’t answer. “Isn’t there a copywriter or something?”

“Yeah— Yeah, but it’s a big report, we’re all helping.”

“You’re usually like a team leader, right?”

“One of a few— You really don’t know what I do?” Enjolras frowns.

“I do _know_ ,” Grantaire pulls a face, gesturing vaguely, “It’s just confusing.”

Enjolras sighs. “I manage the outreach and create workshop programmes for activists—”

“Teaching them how to write rousing speeches?”

“—on how to _campaign_ effectively.”

“Including how to write a sp—”

“Yes, including how to write a speech, but that takes up an hour at most. It’s not just about talking, it’s about action.” Enjolras looks at him seriously, but Grantaire is analysing him again, just like yesterday, holding back a smile.

His eyes flicker to Enjolras’ lips. “And you certainly are a man of action,” he intones.

“And what are you?”

Grantaire hums, the same hum from Enjolras’ dream. “Wild,” he says.

Enjolras can’t respond. He feels his jaw working, trying desperately to fight the heat rising deep within him as he thinks of this morning— 

“So when am I getting that special commission drink?”

“Uh—” Enjolras blinks back to reality, and forgets his earlier vow of ignorance. “Tonight?”

“Can’t wait,” Grantaire nods, eyes gleaming as he pushes off from the desk. “I’ll leave you to your very exciting report,” — he turns to leave, then turns right back — “How uh, how do I get outta here?”

_It’s literally one corridor and two flights of stairs and you remember every single street that you’ve walked down in this city with pinpoint precision—_

Enjolras grabs his keycard. “I’ll walk you out.”

\---

Despite his best efforts to act normal, Enjolras leaves the office on the hour and gets home in record time. He changes into a clean t-shirt, splashes his face, attempts to tame his curls — the usual routine before setting off for the night — and refreshes his perfume — not in the usual routine. 

He adds a second nicotine patch to the one he’d put on earlier, high under his sleeve, hiding in the office toilets after half running back upstairs. The first had done nothing to rid this particular strain of… whatever this is, he thinks, but the second might — or he can hope, at least.

The Musain is busy when he enters, bustling with loud already-drunk students and workers laughing over their Friday evening meals, and no Les Amis, he quickly realises.

He frowns and pulls out his phone, about to question the group chat when he remembers the tide of messages last night: date night, working late, Gavroche-sitting, essay marking, essay writing, another date night.

Enjolras sighs and pulls up Grantaire’s number instead, hovering over the call button before he hits it.

Grantaire picks up on three. 

_“Bonjourrr?”_

“I thought I was buying you a drink?”

“You are.”

Enjolras frowns. “Well where are you?”

“Wh— Oh _shit_!” Grantaire yells, and there’s the sound of rushed movement, “Shit, sorry, I’ll be there in like, five minutes. Where’s Joly? He usually calls when I’m late.”

“He’s not here. No one is.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. All busy.”

“Oh. _Ohh_ , yeah.”

“Yeah.”

A pause. “Do you wanna come over?”

Enjolras’ mouth drops open. His brain gives him nothing.

“I mean,” Grantaire starts, a telltale sign of his rambles, “My place isn’t as nice as yours, my bed isn’t as nice, and it’s only a—”

Enjolras zones out as his instincts battle with each other. Logic tells him to say no, _screams_ at him to say no; self-indulgence says—

“Yes,” he nods, then realises in turn that the action was pointless, and that he interrupted. “I’m sure your place is fine, R. I’ll buy us a bottle.” He props the bar and grabs the wine list as Grantaire exhales, sounding relieved.

“Oh. Okay. Yeah, cool. Great, I can take my jeans off.”

There’s a heavy silence. The menu text blurs in Enjolras’ vision. 

“Wh—”

“ _And put my sweats back on_ ,” Grantaire enunciates, speaking slowly.

Another silence, in which Enjolras should laugh, should brush it off, but he wets his lips and drops his eyes, feeling every word as he says them. “I have seen you in your underwear, you know.”

Grantaire snorts. “That’s cute you think I wear underwear at home.”

Enjolras breathes a laugh, one he rarely hears from himself, the kind that dangerously touches on desire. “I’ll see you in ten,” he murmurs.

“See you.”

He hangs up, flags down Louison’s attention, and orders Grantaire’s favourite.

\---

Grantaire had been talking his apartment down exponentially. It’s a studio in every sense of the word: open-plan, with canvases and notebooks stacked and leaning against each wall; cases of supplies; a desk with two screens and a graphic tablet, and a huge floor length mirror, amplifying the light spilling in through the thin half-drawn curtains.

His bed is pushed near the windows, low to the floor, only supported underneath by slatted crates. It’s half unmade, sheets pulled over haphazardly, creased from where Grantaire must’ve been sitting on top before being disturbed. Enjolras does a double take.

 _“It’s only a double bed,”_ he had been saying as Enjolras’ mind had wandered on the phone, and he realises with a sudden painful clarity that self-indulgence is a thinly-veiled guise for self-torture. 

Grantaire shuts the door behind them. The entire place smells like him. Of course it does. 

“You good?” he asks, swiping the bottle from Enjolras’ hand as he brushes past.

Coffee, paint, coconut.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s nice,” Enjolras nods weakly.

It’s torture.

\---

Grantaire cooks dinner, and the wine flows, and it’s so easy, Enjolras thinks. Hours pass as they sit at opposite ends of the couch, their legs finding their way into each other’s laps; Enjolras rests his glass on Grantaire’s ankle against his thigh, and his mind stays on track, only straying when his eyes drift to look at Grantaire’s wine-stained lips. 

“Why don’t you dance anymore?” Enjolras asks, pulling his eyes up for the nth time. 

“I do. You’ve seen me on a dancefloor.”

“I mean actual dancing.”

“Popping and locking _is_ actual dancing.”

“You know what I mean,” Enjolras sighs, exasperated but fond.

Grantaire smiles ruefully. “Yeah, I… had a rough few years. You know about that.” He swirls his glass, watching the wine move and settle before he continues. “I can distance myself when I paint or draw, if I need to. It can just be lines on a page and that’s that. Dancing can’t have distance. It has to be yourself, completely. I lost myself for a while. I didn’t wanna face up to any of that shit. Uni was hard, you saw that.”

“Mm. But you got through it,” Enjolras offers lightly.

Grantaire scoffs, but it’s not harsh. “Barely. You guys dragged me through those last few months, figuratively and literally. Bossuet would skip to literally come drag me out of bed,” he says deadpan, making sure he gets the point across, and Enjolras smiles softly in acknowledgement. “And honestly? I’m not entirely sure it was worth it. I mean I’m still grateful, but I don’t need a degree to get commissions.”

Enjolras hums. “Learning for learning’s sake is good. You say it yourself.”

“Yeah. Assignment pressure is absolute bullshit though.”

“I remember reading your thesis—”

“ _You_ read my thesis?” Grantaire gawks at him.

Enjolras nods. “I fixed your referencing.”

“That was you?”

“Yeah.”

Grantaire looks gobsmacked. “Nobody told me,” he says weakly.

When Grantaire had finished writing, he’d practically thrown his paper via email to Bossuet and slept for a week while everyone took turns making minor tweaks, mostly grammatical, so few that the referencing had taken more time than the editing. Grantaire had earned the highest grade in his class.

“It was really good, by the way,” Enjolras looks across at him meaningfully. “I’m stating the obvious, but you have a way with words—”

“Like shit I do.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes and continues. “I can’t say I’ve read much on art but yours is my favourite. I still have it on my laptop.”

Somehow Grantaire’s eyebrows climb higher. “You do? Jesus, why?”

Enjolras simply shrugs. “It’s worth keeping.”

Grantaire looks overwhelmed. Enjolras wants to dig deeper, but doesn’t want him to bolt like the deer in the headlights that he’s currently imitating. He drums his fingers on his glass and keeps his tone light.

“So, popping and locking is the only dance you do now?”

Grantaire breathes a shaky laugh. “No. I find time for it now. Not often, but enough to keep a balance.”

“That’s good.”

Grantaire hums. 

“You don’t like showing anyone, do you?”

“I did. I put a few videos up years ago— Don’t bother looking for them,” he points a finger as Enjolras tries to reach for his phone subtly, “I took them down. I watch them back every now and then to cringe at my awful form.”

“I’m sure they’re not bad.”

“And how would you know?”

“Exactly,” Enjolras starts, returning the point, “If I don’t know about proper form then I can’t know that it’s bad.”

Grantaire huffs but smiles. “That... sounds like my kinda bullshit.”

“Then apply your bullshit to yourself,” Enjolras gestures obviously. 

“Did you just call me a hypocrite but, like, respectfully?” Grantaire frowns.

Enjolras narrows his eyes in consideration. “I think so.”

“Hm. Then maybe I’ll have to listen for once,” Grantaire grins, lopsided but soft. Enjolras’ chest aches.

“I’ll drink to that,” he says, smiling as he lifts his glass.

Grantaire does the same, still grinning, and leans forward to close the distance and tap them together. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

\---

It’s not long before Grantaire nudges Enjolras’ thigh with his foot, urging him to bed when his eyes close halfway through his own sentence.

He understands why Grantaire had looked so awkward the first night at his apartment; the unfamiliar room, the unfamiliar bed, the awareness of being watched while dealing with the unfamiliarity.

Except Grantaire isn’t watching. He busies himself closing the curtains and turning off the lights, and it’s weirdly… normal, Enjolras thinks. Grantaire has only ever existed as a force of chaos in Enjolras’ space and in others’ — a welcome force, but chaos all the same. In his own space he’s suddenly and surprisingly neutral.

Enjolras strips his jeans and climbs into bed, and can’t ignore the way his heart races when Grantaire settles in next to him. They’d been lying this close the past couple of times in Enjolras’ bed, but now, face-to-face and with no other option, it feels different.

They say quiet goodnights, and Enjolras blinks lazily, watching him in the dim light of the city escaping through the curtains. It should be overwhelming — Grantaire’s apartment, Grantaire’s bed, Grantaire’s body so close to his own — but it’s not.

In this moment, there’s no shame or embarrassment, worry or doubt — there’s only Grantaire, lying beside him, and it feels right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All those other times I said a chapter fought me I really didn't know the half of it. This one fought, and more often than not, it won, despite large chunks of it having been written for ages. I couldn't deprive you for too long though, and I think I'm happy with it now. Lots of the next is already written too, but you know the drill.  
> Thank you for all the comments on the last chapter, as I've said before, they really get me through — and thank you for the _totally unsuspicious_ uptick in subscribes.  
> More as soon as possible!


	12. Chapter 12

Enjolas is vaguely aware of Grantaire rousing and moving next to him. There’s a beat before the mattress starts to feel lighter as Grantaire sits up and shifts to the edge, going to stand, and — he won’t remember this later, and Grantaire won’t remind him — Enjolras reaches after him, hand touching his arm lightly, more than a graze. 

Grantaire stills for a few seconds. Enjolras’ hand stays, eyes barely open to the palest of morning light as he mumbles some sort of questioning noise.  
  
“Go back to sleep,” Grantaire murmurs, standing, and the hand drops, “I won't be long.”

Enjolras simply hums, consciousness barely touching him to let him question further, and retracts his arm as he changes position, wrapping himself around the pillow under his head and inhaling deeply. Grantaire curses under his breath as he quietly pads away. 

The sound of the shower lulls him back to sleep, and he’s unmoved when the apartment door softly clicks shut. 

\---

A couple of hours later, Enjolras stirs, sheet half thrown off and t-shirt riding up, the warmth of the sun on his back slowly coaxing him from sleep, though not convincing him to wake fully. The heat on his skin slowly becomes unbearable, and he shifts further into the centre of the mattress to escape it but bumps into something. He rolls back slightly, brow furrowed as he glances up.

Grantaire is sitting on top of the sheet, upright against the wall with a sketchpad propped up against his thighs. He looks down with Enjolras’ movement.

“Good morning,” he says, his voice rough but tone gentle.

“Good morning,” Enjolras returns, breaking into a yawn, stretching to lie on his back. “Sun’s hot,” he mumbles.

“Generally tends to be, yeah,” Grantaire smiles slyly as he returns to his work, “I know I’ve slept late if it wakes me up over on this side.”

Enjolras closes his eyes with a sigh. “Use your alarm,” he says, smiling when Grantaire replies with a blunt “no”.

Every window is open, the sounds of the city in its Saturday morning buzz drifting in; Grantaire’s apartment is close to the Seine, the rush of it mingling with the hum of voices and nearby traffic, and Enjolras lets it envelop him. The curtains have been redrawn on the window closest to the bed, diffusing the light that crawls back onto his stomach.

A particular inhale brings the realisation that he’d slept dreamless, blissfully dreamless, for the first time in nearly two weeks. For a fleeting moment he thinks perhaps it’s out of his system, the previous morning an anomaly that he can silently recover from and forget, until he notices that above all else, above the city he loves, he’s listening to the sound of Grantaire’s pencil on paper.

It could still mean nothing, he thinks, it could still go away, but his eyes open and stray to Grantaire’s face without care to further entertain those thoughts. 

“You’re up early,” he comments.

Grantaire shrugs. “Sleep is a fickle mistress,” he says matter-of-factly, and Enjolras hums in agreement. “You looked tired yesterday.”

“Are you saying I looked like shit?” Enjolras asks, automatically teasing.

Grantaire’s eyes finally leave his paper to rake over Enjolras, lingering on where he’d been absentmindedly tracing circles over his ribs with his fingers — he stops abruptly, a chill crossing his skin despite the deep heat in his stomach, no longer from the sun.

“Never,” Grantaire says, eyes flashing as he meets Enjolras’ gaze before returning to his work.

Enjolras’ breath stutters. He crosses his ankles under the sheet. _Don’t_.

“What are you doing?” he asks quickly, nodding at the sketchpad.

“Drawing.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes — secretly thankful, he can cope with this version of Grantaire — and repeats Grantaire’s own words back to him. “ _Yeah, no shit_ , what are you drawing?”

“Art.”

“I swear to god—”

Grantaire laughs, low and close enough for Enjolras to feel it vibrate through him, and he’s not sure he can cope with that.

“Just warmups,” Grantaire says, still smiling. 

Enjolras drags himself to half sit up, gingerly pulling his t-shirt back down, bringing his head level with Grantaire’s shoulder to get a clear enough view to survey the paper. It’s littered with rough sketches of items from around the room: a stack of books; a mess of tangled cables; the clothes piled on the floor _next_ to his clothes rail, and—

“Is that me?” Enjolras knows it’s a stupid question as soon as he says it. 

“No,” Grantaire points the pencil at the book sketch, “ _That’s_ you.”

Enjolras would scoff, or roll his eyes again, but they’re fixed on the two figures in the top corner of the sheet. The first is considered but loose, his arms wrapped around the pillow and face dormant, topped with a crown of backlit curls; the second is rougher but somehow more detailed, deep lines for the creases of his t-shirt and the sheet at his hips, a content expression as he lies languid on his back, hair brighter still. He’d been like that for no more than five minutes, yet it’s a perfect recreation. Enjolras can only stare.

He knows that Grantaire draws everyone during the meetings, but rarely gets more than a glimpse at the finished products. This is something else entirely.

Grantaire clears his throat. “I’ve drawn everything else in here like a million times. You’re a good— You’re a different subject.”

“So you haven’t drawn me a million times?” Enjolras asks, a slightest touch playful — he can’t muster the strength for anything further. 

“Not quite a million, no,” Grantaire’s lips twitch into the smallest of smiles, and Enjolras mirrors it, shifting to sit up fully. “What are you doing?” Grantaire asks.

“Watching. Is that okay?”

There’s a moment before Grantaire nods. “Yeah.”

Enjolras is silent as he watches Grantaire press his pencil to the paper in jagged lines, and then in soft sweeping curves, his hand angular and flexing between grips. His eyes trace up Grantaire’s arm, lightly pressed against his own, then up to his face; Grantaire's eyes flicker between the paper and the subject — now a pile of shoes — his lips generally pursed in concentration but occasionally he wets them, his tongue lingering against the lower for a few seconds—

_Cheeks flushed and lips swollen—_

The sun creeps onto Enjolras' skin again and something inside him burns—

_Grantaire’s tongue between his—_

“Can I use your shower?” Enjolras blurts out, steeling away far too quickly. He feels Grantaire watch after him.

“Sure,” he says, sounding somewhat confused. 

Enjolras thanks any and every god that there’s no physiological reaction, but still waits a moment to simply sit at the edge of the mattress, scrubbing a hand over his face in the hope that it passes off as tiredness and nothing further.

The few moments it takes for him to escape are a blur; he despairs as he asks to borrow shorts — it’s inevitable, the air is boiling, he’s _burning_ — and bites back a curse as he rests his head against the bathroom door with a too-loud thud, one simple thought repeating in his mind: he’s fucked.

\---

He emerges from the bathroom thirty minutes later following a serious mental talk with himself in the mirror, which had promptly gone down the drain as he mindlessly began washing his hair, days too early, and had to choke back a hysterical laugh when faced with the choice between Grantaire’s coconut conditioner — not shampoo, as Enjolras had assumed — or no conditioner at all.

He pats at his hair far too vigorously in the feeble hope that it’ll rid the scent as he re-enters the room; he’s fucked, he thinks again, he’s _fucked_. 

Grantaire is now frowning at a different sketchpad at his desk, the first pencil behind his ear as he chews on another, and Enjolras chances a quick look over his shoulder at what looks like an outline of a zine page. He smiles to himself and retreats to find a spot to sit in the sun and scroll aimlessly through his phone; he doesn’t check his emails or his message requests, and quietly feels proud of himself. 

They fall into comfortable silence, Enjolras finding the book Grantaire had borrowed before he himself had even finished reading it, the peace only broken when Grantaire holds a bowl of cereal directly in Enjolras’ eyeline and sits facing him with a bowl of his own — he mutters a simple “don’t ask” when he sees Enjolras’ gentle smirk. 

Enjolras starts to feel somewhat normal again just as their conversation is interrupted by his phone ringing. He frowns and reaches for it — it’s Combeferre.

“Hello?”

“Hey. Are you free?”

He glances at Grantaire. “Uh, yes and no. I can be. Why?”

“Where are you?”

“Out.” Enjolras immediately cringes at the lie — technically not a lie, he tries to reason to himself. “Why?” he repeats.

“Can we grab a coffee?” Combeferre asks, voice frayed. Enjolras’ brow furrows. 

“Of course. The Musain?”

“No— No,” Combeferre falters, “How about that café on your street?”

“There’s like, three cafés on my street.”

“The one opposite you.”

“Sure. Half hour?”

“Great. See you—”

“Are you okay?” Enjolras cuts in. He knows Combeferre wants to meet to discuss whatever’s wrong, but the unusual tone is worrying nonetheless. 

“Yeah, I… Yeah. See you soon.”

It’s a lie, but Enjolras accepts it. “See you.”

Grantaire is looking at him curiously when he hangs up. “Everything okay?” he asks.

Enjolras shrugs. “Just Ferre, he sounds… I don’t know. I’m gonna go meet him,” he says, standing to gather his things.

Grantaire passes a tote bag to him just as the thought to ask for one enters his head, and he quickly stuffs his jeans and the book inside.

“Thank you for dinner,” he says, blinks, “And breakfast.”

“And the shorts,” Grantaire adds.

“And the bag,” Enjolras nods. “Is there anything else I can take?” he asks, surveying the room in jest, looking back in time to see Grantaire’s expression change.

His tone is heavy when he speaks. “Anything you want.”

The playfulness is gone. Enjolras’ eyes flicker to Grantaire’s lips and back, catching Grantaire repeating the action — if time moved slower, or Enjolras faster, he’s almost sure he could’ve done it, though unsure what _it_ is — he moves just an inch, and—

A knock at the door jolts him.

Grantaire rushes past before Enjolras can process anything, hindered further by the stream of words from behind the door before it’s even fully open.

“Hey can I borrow your boxi— What’s he doing here?” Gavroche looks past Grantaire to eye up Enjolras as he turns.

“He has a name,” Grantaire says. 

“I know but what’s he doing here?”

“Hanging out?” Grantaire tries to say as though it’s obvious, but it comes out like a poor excuse. “He’s just leaving anyway.”

Gavroche’s face moves through confusion to incredulity to acceptance in the blink of an eye. “Okay, whatever, can I borrow your boxing gear?”

Grantaire raises his eyebrows. “ _Why_?”

“To go boxing? Do you think I’d borrow it to go fight someone on the street?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“Don’t you have tutoring with Joly today?” Enjolras asks, regaining his senses.

“Usually, yeah, but he moved me to tomorrow. I’m not lying,” he appeals when they shoot him the same doubtful look, “He takes the mornings after date nights off, remember? Date night also means date morning.”

“He told you that?” Grantaire frowns, but finally moves to let Gavroche enter. 

He rolls his eyes as he walks past. “No, but I’m fourteen, I’m not stupid.” 

“And your sisters?”

“Zel’s working, ‘Ponine’s busy ‘hanging out’ with Cosette,” he adds air quotes and shoots Grantaire a look, “I couldn’t take all the ogling, hence why I’ll take your shit and be on my way from here too, you don’t have to leave on my account.”

Grantaire practically jumps to speak before Enjolras can. “Does ‘Ponine at least know you’re going boxing?”

“She knows I’m out.”

“You’re a goddamn menace,” Grantaire mutters, “I’ll come with you.”

“I don’t need anyone to—”

“I know you don’t, but I’m nice like that, asshole. You come home with a black eye after taking my gear and who’s the one that’s gonna get shit?”

Gavroche grins as Grantaire moves to fetch his things.

Enjolras clears his throat. “Hey, I need to—” he points at the door as they both look at him and Grantaire nods, his expression carefully guarded.

“Yeah, yeah, no problem. Thanks for… Yeah.”

Somehow it makes sense in Enjolras’ brain. “Yeah,” he nods, “See you.”

They call out goodbyes that he barely hears, reeling as he descends the stairs as fast as possible. ‘Fucked’ isn’t strong enough a word.

-

The door closes and Grantaire finally, _finally_ , breathes. 

“What the fuck was that?” Gavroche asks, then quickly dodges the glove Grantaire throws at him.

“Watch your fucking language.”

\---

Combeferre is already sitting at one of the café’s outdoor tables, fingers worrying around a mug, his back to Enjolras as he arrives. He rolls his eyes as he drops his bag next to his chair, his nerves eased after the walk.

“You know it’s nearly thirty degrees, right?” he says, sitting down and nodding his head at the mug.

Combeferre perks up at the sight of him. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Yours is iced, don’t worry.”

“Thanks,” he smiles.

“Your therapy wasn’t today, was it?”

Enjolras shakes his head as he takes a sip. “No, next Saturday.”

“Right.” Combeferre nods, delayed, and takes a long drink, staring into it when he eventually puts it down. Enjolras looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue, but ends up sighing heavily.

“Are we here to talk about my mental state or yours?”

He grimaces. “Yours?”

“Combeferre.”

“I slept over Courf’s last night,” he says in a rush.

“Yeah?” Enjolras raises an eyebrow — it’s a regular occurrence, he knows, but it’s an odd place for Combeferre to start. “I thought you both had work to do last night?”

“We did, we helped each other.”

“And?” Enjolras prompts, keeping his tone neutral.

Combeferre stares, shakes his head slightly. “I couldn’t ask him.”

“Ferre—”

“No, what if he says no?”

Enjolras pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s now been a solid six months of going in circles, resisting dropping more than the smallest of hints to the two of them that they’re in no danger of ruining things.

He sighs again. “We’ve been over this—”

“I know but I don’t think I could hear him say no—”

“What says he would say no?”

“We’re best friends, Enjolras, I’m not fucking that up. Imagine if out of the blue I asked you out, wouldn’t that be weird?”

“Yes, because we have absolutely no chemistry— No,” Enjolras shuts Combeferre down as he opens his mouth to retort, “You’re just being difficult on purpose. Let me speak.”

Combeferre gives him a defeated look but nods willingly and starts wringing his hands; Enjolras reaches out to stop him, taking them into his.

“It’s okay. Just calm down,” he says gently. He pauses to let Combeferre do so and to consider his words. “Look, you two have siblings, I don’t. I see you as brothers, I don’t know anything else. Is that how you see us? Each of us, individually?”

“You? Yes,” Combeferre squeezes Enjolras’ hands, and he squeezes back. “Courf? I… I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m twisting my memories. He’s always been different to you, but I just put it down to personality differences.”

“So you’re saying he’s always been your favourite?” Enjolras smiles softly. 

Combeferre laughs, finally looking a little less worried, removing his hands to cup his drink. “It’s not about favourites.”

“So what’s it about?”

Combeferre looks at him thoughtfully; Enjolras is almost certain he can tell he has second motives for asking, something Enjolras himself hadn’t realised until he’d asked, but Combeferre doesn’t question it.

“What’s it about?” Combeferre repeats to himself. “It’s about love. I love both of you. But him? There’s something else there. Something more.”

“Like what?”

“I see him and I…” Combeferre shoots him a look, the one that says this may get uncomfortable for Enjolras, so he nods reassuringly. “I see him and I want to be as close to him as possible. I dream about him,” — Enjolras’ mouth goes dry, a knot twisting in his stomach — “I dream about holding him, kissing him, I…”

Enjolras is selfishly thankful when Combeferre trails off. He breathes deeply, searching desperately for something to say that will ease both of them. “He’s a good kisser,” he tries weakly, “What is there to lose?”

Combeferre smiles sadly. “Everything.”

“You know that’s not true.”

He stares into his coffee to dodge Enjolras’ gaze for a second, unable to deny it, then nods. “Thank you. And I’m sorry, by the way.”

“What for?”

“For putting all of this on you. Just you. If I could tell anyone else, I would, but, y’know— What?” Combeferre frowns at the face Enjolras pulls.

“Nothing.”

“What is it?”

Enjolras bites his tongue and chooses his words carefully. “Well, you’re not exactly being subtle.”

“What do you mean?” Combeferre’s brow furrows suspiciously, familiarly, leaving Enjolras no room to lie. 

He sighs. “Everyone has pretty much figured it out.”

Combeferre blinks. “Really?”

“Yeah. I didn’t tell anyone. Grantaire told me that it was obvious.”

“I know you wouldn’t— Grantaire?”

“Yeah.”

“And by everyone—”

“He meant everyone, yes.”

“Oh. Courf?”

Enjolras shakes his head quickly. “No, god, no. Otherwise we’d be fine. I’m pretty sure the three of us share a single shred of personal observation skills that we have to pass around.”

Combeferre breathes a smile but it doesn’t quite reach the rest of his face, his eyes working rapidly as he thinks. “Can I take the personal observation shred today?”

“Sure. I think I need a day of being emotionally dense.”

Combeferre laughs heartily, and Enjolras joins him, smiling until Combeferre makes a start and stands. 

“You’re leaving?” he frowns. 

“Yeah, I… I have to do something,” Combeferre says, resolute. “I’ll see you tonight? Corinthe?” 

“Yeah,” Enjolras nods and meets him halfway when he leans down to press their cheeks together, “See you then.”

Combeferre disappears down the street, walking briskly in the opposite direction to his apartment, and Enjolras worries at the hem of his shorts as he watches after him — Grantaire’s shorts, he remembers glaringly. He drains the rest of his coffee and climbs the stairs to his apartment, his previous thought now altered and chasing after him:

_“Anything you want.”_

He doesn’t want anything from Grantaire. He wants everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I missed 69 kudos one night while I was sleeping and I’m absolutely devastated, but honestly I can’t complain when that’s far more than I ever thought I’d get. Thank you so so much, I guess my hard work trying to fight writer's block by mapping out where I’d place their apartments and looking up shit like “Paris sunrise times May” just to make sure I’m hitting the right vibes is paying off.  
> Speaking of vibes, if you're a returning reader, flip back to chapter one for the work note I just added, which I probably should've put there when I first uploaded.  
> No more apologising about delays — I post when it's ready and sometimes that just takes time. Comments appreciated, loved, read, and reread as always!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight nsfw content.

It plays on Enjolras’ mind for hours. He gets chores done and ties up some loose ends for l’ABC, and it simmers beneath the surface, threatening to drag him deeper the second his resolve to not think about it wavers, which it does.

(Anything he wants.)

He tries to take a walk, anywhere his legs can carry him, and he thinks about how Grantaire would probably call it a stroll.

(What does Grantaire want?)

A single breeze, perhaps the first of the day, blows a stray hair across his face, reminding him of this morning, of the shower, of Grantaire’s bed.

(He’d give Grantaire everything.)

He turns back and heads home.

\---

The hours eventually pass, and with evening comes Combeferre’s text to ask if Enjolras wants to walk to the Corinthe with him — a text he sends almost every time they have plans, despite the answer always being affirmative.

Enjolras unlocks the door to leave as his phone buzzes with a second message twenty minutes later, expecting to find the usual “here” follow-up, but retreats back into the room when he reads it.

C: Okay to come up for a sec?  
E: Sure, door’s open

He sits on the arm of the couch to wait, hearing a quiet muffled voice in the corridor soon after, and looks up to see Combeferre enter with Courfeyrac.

Enjolras frowns. He hadn’t expected Courfeyrac to be in tow, though it’s hardly surprising, but he tends to make his way to the Corinthe or Musain with Marius. He’s denied the chance to address it before Courfeyrac is on him, grinning wildly as he drags him to his feet and into a spinning hug.

“You’re an _idiot_ ,” he laughs, a touch too loud considering his proximity.

“Why?” Enjolras asks, throwing a confused look at Combeferre as he manages to mostly still Courfeyrac, holding him at arm’s length. 

“You’ve been listening to us talking about each other for _months_ and _you didn’t say anything_ ,” Courfeyrac shakes him by the shoulders for emphasis.

Enjolras looks up to the ceiling and heaves a sigh of relief. _Finally_.

“Yes, I have, and no, I didn’t, because you’re both adults and you’re both as insufferable as each other,” he scolds mildly.

Combeferre chuckles softly, Enjolras instinctively moving to him once released from Courfeyrac’s grip, and Combeferre sways into him giddily. 

“So you talked?” Enjolras asks, pulling away to look at them.

“Yeah.”

“And it’s all good?”

“All good,” Courfeyrac smiles and wraps an arm around Combeferre’s waist, and they slot together perfectly, naturally. Combeferre hums and presses a light kiss to his temple, and Enjolras feels a pull in his chest as his world shifts before him.

“What happened? What changed?” he manages to ask breathlessly.

“You said everyone knew,” Combeferre shrugs, “I figured if they knew and hadn’t mentioned it then they weren’t worried about it.”

Enjolras sighs again, the final piece of exasperation he’ll ever feel for this particular situation. “Of course they weren’t, _I_ wasn’t. Even Grantaire said—”

“We were being obvious, yeah,” Courfeyrac fills in, “Grantaire wouldn’t know irony if it hit him with a car. Neither would you, for that matter.”

Combeferre cuts in before Enjolras can question the statement (thankfully really, he’s not sure he _should_ question it), his lips holding back a grin. “Come on. We’re gonna be late.”

“Hang on—” Enjolras catches Combeferre’s arm as they both begin to turn away, pulling them closer instead, and they hug him in return without question.

It’s a confusing mix of emotions: pride, joy, _relief_ , love—

“Love you,” Enjolras mumbles into the space between them.

“Love you too,” Combeferre smiles.

Courfeyrac hums. “Love you too, chief.”

They let the moment go on, and it’s Courfeyrac who pats Enjolras’ back and pulls away first.

“C’mon,” he starts, “Before Ferre has an aneurysm over being late.”

“I’m not having an aneurysm,” Combeferre mumbles, but leads the way out in spite of himself, making a weak attempt to look patient while he waits at the top of the stairs as Enjolras locks the door behind them.

“And you said _I_ have difficult needs?” Enjolras says skeptically, exchanging a look with Courfeyrac, who shakes his head with a laugh.

“Punctuality isn’t a need, just good manners,” Combeferre points, but concedes his defence when they ignore him in favour of rolling their eyes at each other.

Once outside, Combeferre and Courfeyrac walk a touch closer than normal; after mere hours their hands already find each other’s instinctively, and it brings a sudden swift realisation to Enjolras that he’ll rarely walk between them again — it’s minute, hardly a life-changing fact, but he still has to reign in the melancholy feelings attached to it.

“Do you think they’ll notice?” Courfeyrac wonders aloud as they near the Corinthe.

Enjolras and Combeferre speak in unison.

“Definitely.”

“Yes.”

Courfeyrac hums lightly, dismissively. “We’ll see.”

\---

They’re late, and everyone notices immediately; Courfeyrac settles with his arm around Combeferre at the bar as they order drinks, and it’s Feuilly who looks to Enjolras with the question.

“Finally?”

“Finally,” Enjolras confirms.

There’s a chatter of remarks and smiles — Bossuet digs into his pocket and throws a twenty euro note across the table to Bahorel, who swipes it out of the air with a grin. 

When they return with their drinks, Courfeyrac is briefly disappointed at his own lack of subtlety, but happily launches into an overview of events: Combeferre had returned to his apartment that morning, no more than an hour after leaving — Combeferre smiles sheepishly when Enjolras shoots him a look — and they’d talked before going on a lunch date, something simple and easy to start. He leaves it at that, smiling contently and taking Combeferre’s hand again, with the additional statement that they’re taking it slow reminding Enjolras that his role as personal confidant to each of them is nowhere near finished. 

He’s pushing that particular thought out of his mind when Bossuet suddenly leans over and addresses him.

“ _Soo_ , Enjolras, what about you, eh?” he starts, “How was your date last ni—”

Joly cuts him off with a gentle tap.

“What?” Bossuet glances from Enjolras to Joly to Musichetta and back again. “Oh. Shit, sorry. Chetta said—”

“Chetta said to keep your mouth shut,” Musichetta speaks for herself, exasperated. “Sorry, Enjolras. Louison told me.”

“Told you what?” Enjolras asks, uncertain amidst the number of eyes on him.

She hesitates at the shameless eavesdropping, but continues regardless, shrugging. “Just that you had a date last night.”

Enjolras’ heart starts pounding. There’s not enough time to consider his options — does he even _have_ options? — and he shouldn’t, he _knows_ he shouldn’t, but—

“How… How did she know?”

He hears the chair beside him creak as Combeferre physically turns to look at him. 

Musichetta blinks in surprise, whether at the apparent accuracy of the gossip or his easy admission, he’s unsure. “She said you were at the Musain, having what looked like a very interesting phone conversation, and then bought a good bottle of wine to go.”

“I—”

“You had a date last night?” Combeferre asks, voice muted in a way that echoes loudly in Enjolras’ head while drawing an invisible curtain between them and their audience.

He turns to face him, and finds Courfeyrac glancing in Grantaire’s direction warily before fixing his eyes on Enjolras too; he’s unsure what Grantaire is doing, whether his gaze is one of the few still boring holes in his head right now or not, but either way Enjolras can feel his concentrated attention.

“Yes.”

 _Fuck_.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Courfeyrac asks, concerned, and Combeferre’s eyes also flicker to Grantaire for a split second.

There’s a moment where he worries Grantaire is somehow giving away his lie ( ~~is it a lie?~~ ), until he remembers the aftermath of his last date, and has to suppress a shudder.

He shrugs and bolsters himself with false confidence, forcing nonchalance. “It was last minute, you were both busy.”

“We have _phones—_ ”

“No, no it’s fine,” Combeferre stops Courfeyrac gently, “Was it good?”

Enjolras nods. “Yeah.”

The tension visibly leaves Combeferre, or most of it, at least. “Good,” he hums, also nodding, and Enjolras can see that Courfeyrac relaxes beside him too, but continues watching him curiously for a few seconds longer.

Attentions disperse and conversations restart around him; Bossuet mouths an apology, eyebrows pinched with worry, and Enjolras waves it off with an accepting smile as white noise splits through his ears. 

It’s a while before he chances a look at Grantaire, only to find him looking back, level and more unreadable than ever. He looks away first, making it easy for Enjolras to do the same, but the sensation of being watched lingers, and the disarray in his mind goes into overdrive.

\---

After a certain hour, Musichetta dips behind the bar and switches playlists, turning up the volume, and it’s met with a resounding cheer. Jehan sings along and sways to the beat, and Grantaire picks up the lede, dragging Éponine from her seat and twirling her around. She rolls her eyes but gives into it, smiling and eventually beaming at him.

Everyone gradually stands to join them, and Enjolras watches them dance from his place at the bar, watches Grantaire dance — it’s as though the music moves through him, and he hits every pulse and every effect perfectly.

He keeps his gaze on Grantaire, almost unashamedly, but he’s startled out of his reverie when Cosette speaks next to him.

“They really love each other, don’t they?”

Enjolras looks across at her with a question, but she’s still watching them, looking as wistful as he feels. She turns to him with a soft smile, and it’s enough of an answer.

“Grantaire?” she asks; her eyes are enough to shatter his defences, but her tone adds to it and leaves him stricken.

He nods, and somehow finds his voice. “Éponine?”

Cosette nods with another small smile, and Enjolras just about finds the strength to return it. She glances back at them, mouth set with determination as she makes a start.

“Are you joining us?”

He’s afraid his legs will collapse under him if he stops leaning against the bar, but he doesn’t say that. “Give me a minute,” he gestures to his drink, and she smiles again as she squeezes his arm.

“Sure thing. Don’t deprive us of your moves for too long, though,” she grins, and Enjolras laughs to himself as she joins the crowd.

She makes a beeline for the pair, but Jehan spots her on the way and pulls her into an embrace before dipping her low to the floor; her laugh rings out, quiet against the noise but high enough to stand out, and Enjolras sees Éponine turn her head to search for her. 

Grantaire grins and mutters something into Éponine's ear, and her face twists as she pushes him away roughly. He laughs and takes her hand to keep her dancing, which she does, until Cosette makes her way over and cuts in. 

There’s a brief exchange, and Grantaire passes Éponine’s hand into Cosette’s and bows, absurdly gentlemanly, and turns away smiling; his eyes meet Enjolras’ across the room, narrowing slightly, and he makes his way out of the crowd.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Enjolras asks as he approaches.

Grantaire grins, eyes swimming. “You looked like you could use some company.”

“What would I do without you?” Enjolras says, teasing.

“I don’t know, catch a break, probably,” Grantaire snides.

“Sounds boring.”

“Mm.” He clears his throat and makes an obvious effort to look relaxed before he speaks again. “So, this date you had last night…”

Enjolras bites his lips together. Actions, consequences. “Yes?”

“What did you get up to?” It’s neither hesitant nor suggestive, but somewhere in the middle, tentative. Enjolras keeps his guard lowered.

“I bought us some wine, he made us dinner.”

Grantaire nods agreeably. “Classic. Sounds like you had fun.”

Enjolras hums, fiddles with the bottle in his hand. 

“Get any action?” Grantaire smirks, voice low; it sends a chill down Enjolras’ spine despite the heat of the room.

“Well,” he starts, “I did wake up next to him.”

Grantaire’s eyes shine. “And I’ll bet he cooked you breakfast.”

Enjolras breathes a laugh unexpectedly. “‘Cooked’ is a strong word.”

“Hey, I bought that cereal for you at like six thirty in the morning, cut me some slack,” Grantaire remarks, but his heart isn’t in his offence.

“That’s where you went?” Enjolras frowns.

“Yeah.”

“Oh. I forgot about that,” he blinks as it comes back to him (mostly), and Grantaire’s look turns slightly cautious. “You didn’t have to do that, you know. I can cope with toast.”

Grantaire scoffs to himself. “Yeah, well, I forgot to buy bread because I stood in the cereal aisle for five whole minutes trying to find your obscure brand and wondering how the Frenchest person I know chooses _cereal_ above all else. What are you, twelve?”

Enjolras raises his eyebrows higher as the tirade goes on. “I’ve never seen someone get so mad about cereal,” he says, fighting to hold back a smile but failing when Grantaire shakes his head.

“God, you’re irritating,” he mutters.

“Welcome to my world,” Enjolras quips, still grinning, and it earns him a playful glare. “I’ll pay you back.”

“Yeah?” Grantaire quirks an eyebrow, “With what?”

Enjolras wets his lips, leaning in slightly closer than he needs to — the music isn’t that loud, they’re not that far apart, but the thrill alone is reason enough. “Anything you want,” he murmurs.

He leans back to watch as Grantaire’s look goes dark. He lets out a long breath — Enjolras feels it on his skin, letting it strengthen his resolve, and keeps his eyes on Grantaire surely.

“Dance with us,” he finally says.

Enjolras narrows his eyes.

“Come on,” Grantaire prompts slyly, “Look, even Marius is dancing.”

Enjolras looks at the scene in question. “That’s not a convincing argument.”

Grantaire hums in agreement, but holds his chin high, undefeated. “I got ‘Ponine up and dancing, didn’t I?”

“Mm. So now you fancy your chances with me?”

“I’m feeling lucky.”

Enjolras pushes his tongue against his teeth, showing just the hint of a smile, and drains the last of his drink; Grantaire watches his lips, eyes darting down for the briefest flash as he swallows, before back up to his face. He quirks his lips a touch when he meets Grantaire's eyes again, sets the empty bottle on the bar and pushes off from it wordlessly, joining the crowd, not needing to check if Grantaire follows. 

Courfeyrac cheers when he spots them, looping an arm around Enjolras’ neck, and it’s easy enough to fall into the beat.

He dances with Jehan, Combeferre, Joly in turn, before finding himself face to face with Grantaire. He’s quite sure they’ve never danced together, at least not alone, with no mediator — Grantaire grins wickedly, self-indulgence wins out again, and Enjolras gives into it willingly.

The bass thrums through him, driving him, and if asked to recall the moment his hand drifts to Grantaire’s hip, he wouldn’t be able to. He simply knows that it happens, and Grantaire is too slow to hide the brief dint of… _something_ in his eyes, but it disappears as quickly as it had arisen.

Grantaire’s body runs hot; Enjolras had noticed when sleeping next to him, during their goodbyes and in fleeting touches, but now, a solid form under Enjolras’ fingers, he can’t ignore the imaginings that fact brings to mind.

He should stop, should go back to moving between people, should take his eyes off Grantaire, but his hand brushes Enjolras’ side, and “should” goes out the window. Grantaire continues moving but awaits a signal from Enjolras, who now understands the look that had passed over Grantaire’s face a moment ago as his senses melt away from him.

He doesn’t do this with anyone. He dances with friends, of course — he can never deny their beckons to join for too long — but with them his hands (and theirs) don’t wander and linger, his breath doesn’t catch, it all feels normal. 

This doesn’t feel normal. It feels obscene. It feels _incredible_.

They move in time, Enjolras attempting to mirror Grantaire when he can, and laughing when he can’t — Grantaire sings along, and Enjolras is sure he knows the words to this one, but they’re lost to him as they fall from Grantaire’s lips, his breath on his skin.

They’re interrupted after one song, Feuilly yelling incoherently and gripping Enjolras’ shoulder as one of their shared favourites fades into recognition on the speakers. Enjolras affords one last glance at Grantaire before letting his attention turn, and Grantaire meets his gaze with a considered winning look.

And so it goes on. Enjolras flits between people, always aware of Grantaire’s location, revolving around him, waiting for the right song or the next inviting look, each one seeming to occur with growing frequency. He steals more touches — Grantaire’s shoulders, arms, sides — not wanting to forget (as if he could forget) how his blood buzzes the closer they get, how his skin sings when they make contact, wanting to memorise the feeling, to sear it into his brain.

It sears, and it sticks.

\---

It’s past 2am when Enjolras gets home, alone, stripping on his way to bed, one thing in mind.

It burns as he works himself up impatiently and presses his fingers inside — he rarely indulges himself with this, but god knows tonight he needs it, and god knows his fingers aren’t Grantaire’s, the press of them firmly committed to memory now, and that thought alone is enough to get him there. 

A simple “R” escapes him; he can deny its weight as a name if he cares to, write it off as a sound on a breath and nothing more, but in the single second of clarity amidst the high he decides that if he’s to be ashamed of it, then it’s a problem for future Enjolras. 

Five minutes later, need sated, on the verge of sleep, future Enjolras can’t find it in him to care. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy _shit_ , thank you so much for 1k hits. I know numbers aren’t everything but when I first restarted this I had the thought that I’d be happy with reaching 1k even months after completion, so y’know. Wow. And the comments on the last chapter really made my month (it was a tough one, if my timing doesn’t already tell), so thank you, again.  
> I commissioned my amazing friend Albin to make [this incredible exR piece](https://twitter.com/albindraws/status/1307275099800821760) and honestly I haven’t stopped staring at the finished product, so please go show him some love.  
> Final note just in case anyone notices even the tiniest of things, I got rid of the “angst with a happy ending” tag — don’t worry, still happy, I just feel that ‘angst’ doesn’t particularly define this fic as much as I originally thought. ‘Tension’, on the other hand, does. Hope you like it.


	14. Chapter 14

The back room of the Musain traps the heat in, even when it’s empty and the windows and doors to its minuscule patio are wide open as they are now, but Enjolras chooses to curl up on one of the sofas to read regardless. The silence of the room is soothing, a background noise of bubbling chatter drifting through from the front and the hushed conversation of a young couple outside, and he sinks into the comfort of quiet.

They rarely have set plans on Sundays, but someone is always around to find, the days hardly spent alone, and so Enjolras sits, and reads, happy to be alone and await the possibility of company.

His solitude is soon broken when Éponine enters, footsteps only audible as she crosses the threshold. Enjolras looks to the sound and smiles at her, and she nods reservedly in acknowledgement — neither of them do small talk, and both of them are fine with that. He turns his attention back to his book, assuming she’s about to begin making herself a coffee, but instead she speaks.

“Hey.”

It’s pointed, and he looks up at her as she approaches and sits opposite him.

“Hey,” he returns.

“What are you playing at?”

He frowns and lets the book close slightly. He hadn’t exactly expected chit-chat, but an interrogation was equally as unexpected.

“Wh—”

“Grantaire.”

Enjolras’ pulse quickens. “What about him?”

“Gavroche said you two were ‘hanging out’,” Éponine puts air quotes around the phrase, exactly as Gavroche had done, and Enjolras is sure the action had been relayed to her.

“Yeah?” he answers calmly.

“Why?” she asks, gaze unwavering.

“Why were we hanging out?”

“It’s a straightforward question.” 

“It’s a weird question.”

“Is it?”

Enjolras can sense a trap, the push to see if he’ll go further and expose his false ignorance to the situation, and he tries not to fall into it. “Because we’re friends?” he says obviously, raising his eyebrows.

Éponine hums and considers him for a moment, her expression unreadable, and she’s somehow worse than Grantaire in that aspect. Enjolras slowly realises that that seems to be it — he would’ve known last night if she had seen them dancing, and if his exchange with Cosette had shone a light on anything, it’s the fact that Éponine would’ve been as distracted by her as Enjolras was by Grantaire.

“Did Gavroche enjoy boxing?” he tests — it’s not fully a deflection, but when Éponine scoffs he’s relieved that it seems to be part of her answer.

“Yeah. He didn’t shut up about it all day. Failed to tell me about this til just now though.” She pauses for a couple of seconds and renews her look at him. “Grantaire didn’t tell me about it either.”

“Do we need to tell you every time we hang out?” he asks cautiously.

“How often—” Éponine stops herself suddenly and reconsiders her answer for a long moment, lips pursed in a drawn line. “No. No, you don’t.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” Her eyes flicker over him again. “Just don’t be stupid.”

Enjolras opens his mouth to question her when laughter barrels down the corridor into the room, Bahorel, Bossuet and Grantaire being the source. 

There’s a chorus of hellos, and Grantaire does a double take when he notices Éponine sitting with Enjolras, his grin faltering. Enjolras smiles, and Grantaire’s worry seems appeased, but he remains apprehensive as the conversation settles and flows. 

\---

A little while later, Enjolras’ phone vibrates in his pocket, pulling him from the sentence in his book. He unlocks it and reads through the buildup of notifications, ignored in favour of reading: news, a tagged post from Joly (almost certainly a photo where Enjolras only barely features in the background), and, most recently—

 **R**  
Message

Enjolras looks up, finding Grantaire listening intently to something Bossuet is saying, phone in hand as he rubs at his chin. He taps on the message.

R: all good?  
E: Yeah, why?

He hits send and returns to the book, noting that Grantaire’s phone doesn’t sound, but this time he at least sees Grantaire type out a quick message in his peripheral vision.

R: what did ep want?

Enjolras frowns.

E: Nothing  
R: liar  
R: i’ll forgive u tho

He smiles, and Grantaire must see, the dots on his screen bouncing again.

R: you had fun last night x

This is… new, Enjolras thinks. Good new, maybe. 

E: I did x  
E: Did you?  
R: I did  
R: you’re a good dancer x

Enjolras’ whole body keens. (Definitely good new.)

E: Hardly  
E: You’ll have to teach me more x  
R: my services don’t come cheap x  
E: I’m sure I’ve got the budget x  
R: then we’ll have to work something out x

Bossuet reaches the punchline of his story in time to cover Enjolras as he laughs to himself at the absurdity, at the sheer joy of speaking like this. He throws a quick look at Éponine — leaning against Grantaire, laughing, unaware that he had been texting at all — and then at Grantaire himself, a glint in his eye as he smiles at Enjolras.

He bites his lip and dog-ears the page, turning to the next — he hasn't read a thing for five minutes and knows he won’t be able to read more, but he can at least pretend — and props his phone upright within it.

Enjolras replies, and Grantaire replies, and it continues.

\---

They text all week, and the dreams subside, in a sense. Rather, they move to waking thought, and Enjolras wonders why it feels so good — it had never felt this good, even with someone else’s touch — and he knows that the answer is staring at him from his phone screen, the unpredictable but enthralling pattern of Xs weaved into a conversation that never truly stops. 

It blurs the days together, and when Saturday rolls around again Enjolras realises he’s mostly forgotten to be nervous for his first therapy session.

It isn’t as hellish as anticipated. Definitely still hellish, but not exceedingly so. They talk through his background, his life, and about a total of five times his therapist asks questions or says things that hit a nerve — easing into it, he thinks, still mulling everything over as Combeferre and Courfeyrac walk him home, fetching takeout on the way. 

Combeferre is in the middle of plating up and Courfeyrac choosing a shitty film — not a TV series this time, thankfully — when Enjolras’ phone buzzes.

R: how was it?  
E: Hated it  
E: Booked another session  
R: that’s good  
R: are you okay?  
E: Yeah  
E: Ferre and Courf are here  
R: cool  
R: want me to leave you alone or keep talking?

Enjolras glances up; Combeferre catches Courfeyrac in a light kiss as he hands him a plate of food, and Courfeyrac beams up after him.

E: Keep talking x

\---

It feels like a write-off of a weekend, his mind still foggy from therapy, and the following week scrapes by at a snail's pace as it gradually clears. Enjolras barely sees anyone save for a Friday lunch date with Jehan and Feuilly, where he tries to ignore the ping of his phone out of courtesy, but fails, glancing at it when it sounds twice in quick succession.

R: swing by my place before the musain tomorrow night  
R: i have something for you x

Enjolras frowns slightly.

E: This sounds suspicious? x  
R: you know me  
R: international man of mystery x  
E: You wish x  
R: ;)

Jehan takes a deliberately loud sip of his tea, catching Enjolras’ attention. “Interesting conversation?” he asks, nodding his head at the phone, eyebrows quirked with a feigned innocence that only makes him look more smug. 

Despite it not being visible, Jehan somehow always knows when Enjolras is blushing, his expression doing something unbeknownst to him, betraying what he believes to be a cool facade.

He rolls his eyes and offers no further response, looking back to his phone.

E: I’ll be there x  
R: xx  
E: X

“Is he hot?” Feuilly chides, smiling brightly; Enjolras bites back a smile of his own, mostly, and the two of them laugh.

\---

Appt 4 _—R_

The signature scrawled on the metalwork next to the button makes Enjolras hover over it. He hadn’t seen it last time, hadn’t needed to press it — Grantaire had been waiting for him on the doorstep — but he knows it’s there for Bossuet and his consistent memory lapse of friends’ apartment numbers. It’ll be hard to scrub off if Grantaire ever moves, but Enjolras figures that Grantaire must love that idea, and smiles at the thought.

The door opens before he can come to his senses, smiling dopily at a buzzer, and he shakes himself as he steps out of the way for the person leaving.

“Can I help you?” they ask with a slight frown, then blink it away, “Oh, Enjolras, right?”

“Hi?” Enjolras says; he’s pretty sure he doesn’t know them, but they move and hold the door open for him anyway.

“Knock loudly, or call him maybe,” they say, walking away when he enters, and leaving him with no chance to ask any of the questions that would clear his sudden confusion.

He soon finds one answer for himself — a low sound of music grows louder as he reaches Grantaire’s floor, louder still at his door, and Enjolras knocks loudly as instructed. 

The music pauses after a second, and he hears Grantaire take long quick strides toward the door before it opens in a scramble.

“I’ll turn it down, sor— Oh. Hey,” Grantaire stops himself, breathless, sweating, and Enjolras’ eyes immediately fall south.

He’s wearing a drop-arm vest again, looser than the last one, his muscles shining, tan and taut — Enjolras shouldn’t be looking, he’s staring and that’s worse—

“Hey,” he chokes out, dragging his eyes back up.

“Hey,” Grantaire repeats, already on his way to grinning, but then a mild panic replaces it. “Shit, am I late again?”

“No, no, I’m early,” Enjolras shakes his head, his heart pounding, and he has to breathe against it — he’s a whole hour early, and he’d refrained from letting himself leave any earlier than that. “Am I interrupting?” he points.

The corners of Grantaire’s lips pull up again. “Kind of,” he says, then opens the door wider for Enjolras to walk in, “Unless you’re here for that dance lesson I offered?”

Enjolras blinks at him. “You were dancing?”

“Yup.”

He notices the area in front of the large mirror is cleared, the open windows doing nothing to relieve the humidity; it feels hotter in here than outside, or perhaps that’s just his heart rate, Enjolras thinks, but the sweat on Grantaire’s skin reassures him and also sends his mind veering into a now-familiar territory. 

“Maybe I’ll take you up on that,” he murmurs, and the air only gets closer.

Grantaire hums. “I’ve got some moves I think you’ll like.”

“I bet,” Enjolras agrees, and lets his eyes wander again for a second. “You said you had something for me?” 

“That I do,” Grantaire nods slowly, smiling, then gestures to the couch, “Sit.”

Enjolras narrows his eyes but sits as Grantaire fetches a small stack of papers from his desk and flicks through them, brow furrowed, rearranging the order before offering them to Enjolras in a set orientation.

He cocks his head as he accepts them, scrutinising them as Grantaire sits beside him — their arms brush, Grantaire’s burning hot, and it takes a moment for Enjolras to concentrate.

They’re three thin makeshift booklets, rich matte paper simply folded in half, the spines loose and unstapled. The front page of the first is blank except for a name, which Enjolras thinks he knows from somewhere.

“It’s the zine art,” Grantaire explains, just as Enjolras places it, “Sorry, should’ve said.”

Enjolras looks at him, surprised. “You’ve finished them already?”

“The first drafts, yeah.”

“That was quick.”

“You realise art is my only job, right?” Grantaire frowns playfully, “I have all the time in the world, and, I literally can’t emphasise this enough, no thoughts, head empty. Honestly, it’s pretty disgusting.”

Enjolras hums a laugh. “Fair point.”

“I sent the digital files onto Léa but I also printed those off, just as an idea of what they feel like, y’know.”

“Can I look at them?” he asks, trying not to sound too eager.

“Sure,” Grantaire nods nonchalantly, slightly forced.

Enjolras flips open the page to find an array of colour, the hues and shades easily recognisable as Grantaire’s work. He’s read the pieces before, and so he skims the words and focuses on the illustrations, how the art interacts with the words on the page, giving them space but giving them a second life, enough to make the eye linger.

“You chose the ones you wanted to do, right?”

“Yeah, so that first essay, they had an idea in mind for it and I went with it, but the other two were open to whatever.”

Enjolras nods slowly, turning the page and taking in the continuation. “Did you like the pieces?”

“Yeah. Yeah, the third one caught my eye.”

“Did you agree with them?” Enjolras asks, raising an eyebrow in his direction.

Grantaire smiles impishly. “Mostly.”

Enjolras smiles, switching to the second booklet; a poem, lined with softer effects, akin to Grantaire’s rare watercolours. He’s aware of Grantaire watching him, fidgeting, though he’s not sure why — Enjolras has seen his art before, he likes his every post on every platform — until he flips to the third booklet, another blank cover with a name which Enjolras barely registers as he goes to turn the page, then stops abruptly.

 _ Enjolras  
_ _x R_

He’s allowed a few seconds to simply stare at it, speechless, before Grantaire speaks, his voice almost cracking.

“Sly bastard failed to tell anyone that he’d finally written a piece for his own work’s project.”

“I—” Enjolras tries, his mouth suddenly dry. “I didn’t think— I…”

That’s the full sentence. He didn’t think.

He’d been wary about writing it; speeches and statements he can do, but writing about l’ABC itself had been daunting, detailing their work throughout the years, what he and they have learnt and are still learning. Quite frankly, he had forgotten that it would also need to be illustrated, and hadn’t even connected the two when bringing Grantaire into it, let alone thought to hope Grantaire would actually do it. 

He turns the page, unable to stare at the cover any longer, only to stare at the inside instead.

The spread is simple, the pages clean white, Enjolras’ words next to crisp versions of sketched pencil portraits, every member of Les Amis in action; writing, talking, organising, laughing. They all feel real, alive in soft greyscale.

A sketch of Enjolras is placed to draw the eye first, his brow focused but relaxed, a touch of a smile on his lips, pen in hand.

“Where are these from?” he breathes.

Grantaire half shrugs. “It’s what I do in meetings.”

Enjolras’ head snaps up to look at him, mouth dropping open. He can tell Grantaire is searching his face to figure out his response but is having no luck — understandable, because Enjolras can’t quite figure it out either. 

“I—” he starts, shaking his head, “You keep those?”

Grantaire nods, looking slightly relieved to hear some words. “Everything,” he confirms. 

“Shit,” Enjolras mutters, “That’s incredible. These are incredible, R.”

“You’ve only looked at the first page,” Grantaire says coyly. 

“I know, but— But it’s _us_ ,” Enjolras smiles at the page breathlessly, turning to the second spread, which elicits an equal response to the first, goosebumps trailing down his arms that he knows Grantaire can see, can feel.

A self-portrait catches his eye, done from the reflection in the mirror behind the bar of the Musain, but to an outsider that fact isn’t obvious, and it blends in as a portrait like any other, Grantaire’s face concentrated on the paper he’s drawing on. Enjolras thumbs over it. 

“I like this one.”

He hears Grantaire smile. “It’s one of the few where I look like I could actually be doing something worthwhile.”

“You’re always worthwhile.” Enjolras says it more to the page than to Grantaire; he’s not sure what he would do if he were to look at him directly. 

Grantaire clears his throat and points at a drawing of Jehan, eyes shining, mid-speech. “That’s from the time you lost your voice like, mid-meeting, and Joly made him take over for you.”

“He was reading from my notes and yet you barely had any comments,” Enjolras adds, and Grantaire hums innocently. “God, that was years ago.”

“I know,” Grantaire muses. 

“This must’ve taken you no time at all, just having them to hand.”

Grantaire tenses, the air falters — amidst the giddiness, Enjolras doesn’t feel it. “Only about seven years’ worth of time, yeah.”

“Can I see more?” he asks, looking up, and sees it; Grantaire stares at the page for a long moment and draws in a breath, exhaling it sharply but quietly.

“No.”

“R?” Enjolras tries, hesitant suddenly, “Why, what’s—”

“Because.”

“Because..?”

“Just because.”

“I… That’s not—”

“Those are for everyone to see. They’re good together, it works,” Grantaire gestures, blunt, answering the question Enjolras isn’t actually aiming for, “I’m not showing anyone any more.”

He finally meets Enjolras' eyes with that, and Enjolras can see the warning in his expression, can hear it in his voice, but it only confuses him more.

“But—”

“What? But what?” Grantaire asks plainly, eyes tight.

 _But I’m not just anyone_ , Enjolras thinks. Pathetic. Selfish. Entirely not the point, and he _knows_ that, but it’s the single stinging clarity amongst the confusion.

“Nothing,” he says, trying to swallow down the feeling, standing on autodrive. “I’ll just— I’ll take these into work. Thank you.”

He sees Grantaire shake his head in the corner of his eye, cursing to himself before he stands. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Enjolras turns.

“Don’t look so goddamn disappointed in me. I don’t need it.” Grantaire looks away from him again, and that’s somehow even worse.

Enjolras presses a hand to his forehead, desperately trying to think what went wrong. “I _told_ you, Grantaire, I’m never disappointed in you,” he pleads, “I just don’t see—”

Grantaire cuts him off with a laugh lacking joy and amusement. “No, Enjolras. No, you don’t.”

They’re talking about something else now. Enjolras sees that, at least; he feels it, deep in his gut, and it rises like acid.

“Do _you_?” he asks.

He sees Grantaire snap out of it immediately, whatever _it_ is. The set of his frown changes, lips losing their harsh line; Enjolras waits for something from him, anything, but it doesn’t come, and nothing is suddenly too much.

He takes a step to leave, but stops himself before he knows why; he turns, closing the distance between them, and presses a kiss to Grantaire’s cheek — quick but distinct, a far cry from their usual goodbye.

Grantaire stays still.

Grantaire doesn’t say anything.

Grantaire lets him leave. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. Sorry.  
> I was (and still am) nervous about this one, so I admittedly spent a week mostly just writing 5k of an established relationship fic set later in the same AU, so it looks like I’m definitely not a “one fic and done” kind of writer. That’ll be up after this fic is finished, which we’re nowhere near yet, but it’s something to look forward to at least.  
> Similarly, I’ve got something up my sleeve for the next update so I’ll try to stay on time with it. See you then — and uhh, sorry, again.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update. Enjoy.

**alphabet soup**  
Coucou: Saving seats at musain but it’s busyyy so hit us up if you’re coming or your seat WILL get taken   
Coucou: I can only lie across four chairs for so long  
Comb sent a photo.   
Coucou: Ferre’s being useless he’s only saving one seat w his hand  
Boz: on way with jo  
Boz: ly  
Boz: joly  
Coucou changed Jolly’s nickname to Jo.  
Jo: Hate this  
Bahoerel: ferre my man put your body on the line for us  
Comb: No

Enjolras reads the notifications as they pop up, not daring to click on and appear online. It shouldn’t surprise him when his screen alights with a call from Combeferre a few seconds later, but it does, the noise loud in his silent apartment, and he allows himself a couple of rings to steel himself.

“Hello?”

“Hey, are you gonna be here soon? You said you were nearby?”

Enjolras bites his lip. “I did.” He did. He had sent a preemptive text two hours ago to say their usual routine wouldn’t be necessary tonight — still factually correct, he figures, but for a different reason. “And I was.”

“But not anymore?” Combeferre sounds instantly understanding, and Enjolras can’t help but think that empathy is the last thing he deserves right now.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “No, not anymore. I’m at home. I think I’m gonna skip tonight, sorry.”

Combeferre makes a quiet accepting noise, one that usually accompanies a nod. “Everything okay?”

“I… I’m just tired,” Enjolras settles on. “Long week in the heat.”

“No worries. Lots of water and bed early, yeah?”

“Got it.”

“Is that Enjolras?” Courfeyrac asks, not too far in the background. Combeferre’s voice quiets as he turns from the microphone to explain, and is soon replaced by Courfeyrac’s closer voice. “Miss you already, Enj!”

He swallows against a lump in his throat and curls deeper into the couch. “Miss you too.”

“Don’t have too much fun without us, yeah?”

“I’ll try.”

“We should probably go,” Combeferre starts, “Joly and Boss just got here. You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras lies, and he knows Combeferre knows. “I’m fine, Ferre. Put a round on my tab.”

“Oh, I hear that,” Courfeyrac chimes. 

“Absolutely not,” Combeferre responds to both at once — Enjolras manages a smile at that — “I’ll text you tomorrow.”

“Okay. See—”

“Love you,” Combeferre interrupts.

“Love you too,” Enjolras nods after a second, unable to stop the waver in his voice, and hangs up before it can be questioned.

\---

His skin itches, then crawls. With no distraction it’s hard to focus on anything but the feeling, but his own words.

He had been trying to ask what was wrong, what he had said, but he sees it now, had seen it the moment his legs had finally deigned to stop moving when he walked in through his door, glaringly obvious.

_“This must’ve taken you no time at all.”_

Stupid. Offhand and thoughtless and _stupid_.

_“Just don’t be stupid.”_

Éponine’s words ring out in his head, alternating with his own, a sickening loop of call and response. It’s almost laughable. 

He flips through the booklet, scared it’ll physically burn a hole in his coffee table if he doesn’t stop trying to ignore it, and holds it up close, finding details he hadn’t seen before. They’re steeped in familiarity, in _warmth_ ; seven years’ worth of time, of friendship — of more, now. That’s the worst part.

They haven’t argued like this in years, he’s not even sure they’ve ever argued about anything personal at all. The “easy” incident he sees as just that — an incident, an (ironically) easy jab, which it now dawns on Enjolras that that may have been fuelled by jealousy. He pushes that thought down, he doesn’t need that _now_ , of all times.

Their old arguments had felt different. Even back then it had been nothing brutal, asides in meetings that had snowballed and been resolved by the next. Those had been tinged with a certain strain of anger, but never for Grantaire — the feelings for him always rooted in frustration — no, the anger was always at himself. Why didn’t he think of what Grantaire was about to say? Why didn’t he anticipate it? So he’d learnt to. He’d be ready for Grantaire’s mouth to open, a response to whatever caveat he threw out already accounted for, and it had made Enjolras better, made them both better, and despite the jokes they really had become discussions. Heated but fair, enjoyable, and they had become friends.

They’re not just friends now. He sees it, and he knows Grantaire does too, that it’s not just some delusional imagining or misled hope. With that hanging over their heads, it’s even harder to tell what to do.

Enjolras can’t do inaction. He can’t bear waiting for himself, for nothing, as though the world can stop for him any more than he can stop for it. He could be at the Musain right now, even that would be _something_. He could have pulled Combeferre and Courfeyrac aside and told them, but that would involve an explanation longer than Enjolras can even be sure of where he would start, followed by questions. 

Grantaire might be there. He might not. Enjolras can’t quite tell which is worse, his avoidant presence a reminder of the void he leaves, or his absence all night, all week, being actively ignored, again. 

It’s hypocritical, he realises suddenly. Avoiding Grantaire to avoid being avoided. 

“Fucking— _Stupid_ ,” he spits, and pushes up off the couch.

He stops fiddling with the unlit cigarette in his hands; he had reached for it instinctively, but fought off the drive — it had gotten easier until tonight, but even so, he doesn’t want Grantaire to be involved with his own personal battles — and so had been picking at it, folding and tearing it. 

He throws it away, pockets his phone and keys, and sets off. 

\---

It’s easy enough to find him. Enjolras isn’t technically looking, simply on his way to his apartment, and almost misses him, but the mop of dark curls sitting on a bench makes him do a double take, head down at some domino game on his phone, cast yellow-orange under the streetlights.

“R?”

Grantaire looks at him. He manages a neutral expression, or just about, neither wary nor open.

“Can I sit?” Enjolras points meekly.

Grantaire nods, stunted. “Yeah.”

He goes back to his game as Enjolras sits, within touching distance but not daring to lean those few inches closer, to trip the static between them. He’d failed to come up with any words to say on the journey, but now some of the uncertainty lifts, even if the knot in his stomach tightens.

He chances a look at Grantaire’s face. “Hey.”

His eyes dart as they trail up to meet Enjolras’. “Hey.”

He looks away again, and Enjolras knows his only option; they push and pull, swaying either side of the narrow middle ground until now, a delicate balance finally struck on the inch-wide line they’re toeing. Enjolras had pushed too much, though it had been less than before, but the effect had been greater, the line under their feet continuing to narrow as they hurtle toward a cliff-edge. He’s not sure what that edge is, or where it is exactly, or what lies beyond it, but the trajectory is set, and so he pulls them back in.

“I’m sorry I made it sound like you hadn’t put anything into that,” he starts, but Grantaire speaks before he can continue.

“Enjolras, it’s… It’s fine. Forget about it.”

“But that’s what it was, wasn’t it?” he asks, looking across at Grantaire tentatively, continuing when he pulls the slightest face to himself that confirms Enjolras’ suspicions. “I didn’t mean to, but I did it, and I’m sorry.”

Grantaire nods slightly, slowly, followed by a quick glance of acknowledgement — this is usually where he’d interrupt, but instead he locks his phone and waits. 

“You said…” Enjolras starts, then tries again, more sure, “You said art can have distance, it can just be lines. ‘Can’ doesn’t mean always. I think those pieces of us have more of yourself in them than anything else, and then you show them to me and I say… that.

“It was stupid of me to say something like that with no consideration, and then to expect you to show me more, like it’s easy, when of course it’s not. I should know that, I couldn’t even tell anyone about my essay. So I’m sorry for that too. Whatever you feel you can show me, I’ll be happy with. I’ll be honoured. Even if it’s nothing else. You’re already enough.”

There’s a prick of tears in his eyes as he falls quiet, but he fights against them and concentrates on Grantaire; he takes a long deep breath, exhaling through almost-closed lips and pulling a hand through his hair. He nods as he scrunches it between his fingers and lets it drop. 

“Yeah, that’s… Yeah,” he nods again, swallows, and meets Enjolras’ eyes. “Thank you. Sorry I got upset.”

“No, R, don’t apologise for that. I upset you, that’s on me.”

“I reacted badly though, and that’s on me. I should’ve just told you what it was.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Enjolras assures. “And thank you, for doing that for me. I didn’t say it earlier, not properly, and I should’ve.”

Grantaire hums. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Like it? I love it, R, it’s perfect. I should’ve said that too.”

He draws in another collected breath, but chokes it out in a rushed huff of a laugh when Enjolras puts a hand on his knee. Enjolras pushes down a smile at the reaction.

“There’s a lot of ‘should’ve’s here,” Grantaire notes shakily, erring on joking. 

“Hindsight,” Enjolras nods, and Grantaire hums again. “When… When I wrote that, I didn’t even think about what they’d put around it. I didn’t think I’d particularly care, I—” he smiles ruefully to himself, “I should’ve thought of you straight away.” Grantaire shoots him a mild look as he repeats the word again, but doesn’t point it out further.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, and picks up Enjolras’ hand, lacing their fingers together and squeezing, “You can’t help that you’re not artistically inclined.” He bumps their shoulders, an obvious pull on his lips, and Enjolras smiles, then laughs, and Grantaire breaks into laughter too.

It’s a relief. They’re okay; they can talk, and laugh, and their hands are still clasped, and they’re okay.

Another pique of tears follows that thought, and Enjolras acknowledges the feeling behind them verbally, not allowing them to manifest physically.

“I really am sorry.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire huffs, exasperated but fond, “I know you are. Only took you, what, three hours to come find me? Took me a week to work up the guts to face it before. You’re a better man than me.”

“You—”

“I’m not talking myself down,” he halts Enjolras’ interruption lightly, holding up his free hand, “Just a figure of speech.”

“Good,” Enjolras nods. “‘A better man’?” he wonders aloud.

“ _Person_ ,” Grantaire corrects with a smile, which Enjolras returns. “And honestly, I do feel better. Or, y’know, mostly, at least. Nothing another drink and a dance won’t solve next time Chetta plays the good shit.”

“Of course.”

They fall into quiet for a long minute, and Enjolras knows there’s more to address, that things can’t go unsaid; he's looking for somewhere to start (where _could_ he even start?) when Grantaire nudges Enjolras’ foot with his own.

Enjolras frowns down at it. Grantaire nudges him again. 

“Hey.”

Enjolras looks at him quizzically. “Hey?”

Grantaire smiles radiantly, beautifully, and Enjolras gets lost in it; there’s a gap between two of his side teeth, straight-edged and blunt, subtle from most angles but prominent and easy to see from this side. It’s something so wholly Grantaire, and Enjolras knows how obvious his stare is, but he’s unable to stop it. Grantaire only seems to smile deeper. 

“Come on,” he says, standing and dragging Enjolras with him. “The night is young.”

“It is?”

“It is,” Grantaire confirms, lips quirked, and Enjolras can’t help believing him.

\---

They stroll. 

Enjolras assumes to make a late entrance to the Musain, but Grantaire steers them in the opposite direction, along streets skirting the Seine, criss-crossing the bridges over the water. Their hands lose each other along the way, the constant brush of their arms in replacement not quite enough.

“So, how did you break into my building earlier? Should I be concerned?”

“Your neighbour let me in — they knew my name?”

Grantaire’s brow knits lightly. “Short hair, full beat makeup?” he gestures, and Enjolras nods. “Yeah that’s Manon, she’s in the Musain like, all the time. You’ve never seen her?”

“I… Should I have?”

“She doesn’t come to meetings, if that’s what you mean, but still.”

“Oh. Then no, I guess I haven’t.”

Grantaire huffs a little, barely audible. “It’s almost funny how you don’t see the way people look at you.”

Enjolras looks across at him, pace erring when Grantaire’s does. “Almost funny?”

“Yeah. Almost.”

It feels like something, like a hand extended, offered unknowingly.

“I do see,” Enjolras says, “When it’s important.”

Grantaire slows to a stop and turns to him, an apprehensive look on his face before it’s quickly dashed, turning and searching for something. “Where’s that coming from?” he frowns.

“What?”

“That music.”

“Oh.” Enjolras is slow to come out of his thoughts but finds the source easily. “I think it’s them,” he points at a small group a hundred yards ahead of them, huddled around a bench overlooking the river, one with a phone in hand.

“Oh. Good song.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Enjolras tunes into it, not needing to strain, the volume turned up high. He vaguely recognises it, uptempo but intimate, chasing, a slow drive that builds. Grantaire seems lost to it already, and with him goes Enjolras' opportunity, just as they were getting somewhere again — so he finds another instead.

He touches Grantaire’s elbow and pulls him aside, back a few paces to the steps leading down to the river quay. “You said I owe you a dance, right?”

“Correct.”

“Then show me. Properly. You said you would.”

A smile touches Grantaire’s lips and he exhales dramatically, disturbing the curls on his forehead. “I did say that, but I really can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Well firstly, we’re literally in the middle of the street.” 

Enjolras pulls him slightly, an implied gesture to the deserted quayside below, a wave of satisfaction when it has the intended effect; Grantaire leans into it, shaking his head in rueful defeat. 

“It’s not like I just have routines in my head. Contemporary’s different. That’s not how it works.”

“Then how does it work?” Enjolras brushes his thumb across the soft skin of Grantaire’s inner arm, hair standing on end — he smiles wider, leans closer still.

“You just let go.”

There’s a glint in his eyes — not a tease, or a dare, but an invitation — before he turns to descend the steps, his feet landing in a rhythm. 

Enjolras watches after him, and lets go. 

\---

They dance. 

Enjolras can't tell what he does, but he hears the music above them, the swell of the Seine running beside them, and he sees Grantaire, he feels Grantaire, he feels _everything_ , and nothing else matters. 

They brush past each other, twisting and turning, lit by the dying throes of sunset and sodium bulbs. Grantaire dances like he fights, his steps light, calculated, strength bleeding in every subtle movement. Enjolras knows he can’t mimic this, but he follows however he can; his shirt streams behind him as he spins, his hair flicking with it, finally long enough for a decent ponytail again. There’s no breeze to blow through it, and if there were he feels like it would take him away with it.

The melody falls away for a moment, a reprieve in which Grantaire pulls up behind him, hooking his chin up on Enjolras’ shoulder, stilling them. They take in the close air, breathing ragged and out of sync, but tuning into the other’s. 

In one swift movement, Grantaire curves past him, clasping Enjolras’ hand as he goes and dragging him into a sprint, the beat kicking in once more. Everything within him burns and he can feel each bead of sweat escaping his body, but it does nothing to calm the fire engulfing his muscles, only catching alight itself. 

He laughs through it, even as the air stings in his throat, and then they’re spinning again, falling into orbit, drawing nearer and nearer; Grantaire stops abruptly and grabs Enjolras’ hands, bringing him to a halt. He uses the momentum to swing their arms up overhead, and it pulls Enjolras in, until their foreheads touch, and then guides their hands down, slowly, the music’s crescendo falling into a lull, and untwines his fingers from Enjolras’ when they come to rest.

They just breathe again, and Enjolras can feel Grantaire’s pulse pounding, can feel his own pulse pounding, his eyes scrunched shut. Grantaire’s nose bumps his, and Enjolras looks at him, finding his eyes exploring Enjolras’ face fervently. 

The song stops. No other is lined up to follow it; a dead battery, or a call to head off, and there’s the distant sound of disappointed groans and laughter, but Enjolras barely hears them, the sound of the river roaring into his ears. 

When Grantaire finally meets his gaze it’s for far too long and not nearly long enough. His eyes flit away, blinking, and he draws back, breaking all contact; Enjolras’ brain kickstarts; his hand shoots up, tangling in the hair at the nape of Grantaire’s neck, bringing him forward to meet his lips.

It’s an eternity, and it’s brief, a soft press. A second before Enjolras means to part, Grantaire kisses back, and eternity grows longer still; the river freezes, the city stills, a rapturous silence falling around them.

It’s a raw catharsis, too much and not enough all at once — it’s what he’s longed for, beneath his fingertips, kissing him back with feeling. As though he knows — and he must, surely he must — Grantaire’s head relaxes into Enjolras’ hand, tilting up to better meet his lips.

They reach for each other tentatively, then surely, the liminal space between them now crossed; Grantaire’s fingers graze past his pulse, sending it running, arm pressed flush to Enjolras’ chest where his shirt is buttoned low, thumb brushing the corner of his jaw delicately.

It’s inevitable when Grantaire’s tongue meets his, a slow test at first, a question that Grantaire knows the answer to, but Enjolras savours the taste of it and answers it anyway. He gasps into Grantaire’s mouth and pulls him closer, his hands roaming where he wants, not just where he thinks they should — fists clutching at his abdomen, the muscles of his arms moving under Enjolras’ fingers as his hands wander Enjolras’ body in kind.

It feels like forever, and he would do this forever if Grantaire were to let him; there’s no words in reach to capture that thought, but Enjolras breathes his name between a kiss, mouthing at his jaw, hoping that conveys it, and Grantaire draws back, eyes wide.

“Oh, _fuck_.” 

He surges forward and kisses Enjolras harder, deeper, _somehow_ — it’s all new discoveries of somehow, and this — Enjolras has never kissed anyone like this, fully, wholly consumed by it, and his body trills at the thought of what comes next—

“Home,” Enjolras mumbles against his lips, tightening his grip amongst his curls.

Grantaire nods urgently. “Mhm. Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xNH5YWpy3kk)]


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nsfw.

Enjolras isn’t sure how long it takes them to get home, but his lips are on Grantaire, and Grantaire’s lips are on him, and when neither are on each other it’s excruciating. 

He manages to break himself away at the door of the building, freeing his mouth and a hand to find his key and enter the code; Grantaire moves to attend to his neck, and it shouldn’t be _that_ distracting, Enjolras thinks, the digits muddling in his brain for a handful of seconds.

“Wait— Wait a sec, R,” he mumbles, and he’s surprised — and utterly _enthralled —_ that Grantaire does what he’s told. He’s even more surprised by the steadiness of his own hand when he finally inputs the code, going on muscle memory alone, and opens the door with a relieved sigh.

Grantaire wastes no time in finding his lips again and they fall into the hallway, gripping each other tighter to catch themselves, laughing against each other before they continue back toward the stairs frantically, something unsaid now broken under the guise of privacy. Grantaire pushes, and Enjolras pulls with equal force, managing to climb one step backwards before impracticality catches up to them and they slowly collapse.

His landing is softened with Grantaire’s arm around his back, his other hand hurriedly untucking the front of Enjolras’ shirt and slipping up, grazing his stomach — Enjolras cuts the kiss short with a moan that almost definitely echoes up the stairwell, hips canting up instinctively. Grantaire’s gasp in response is quieter, Enjolras’ name caught between their lips, but it’s enough to get him moving again.

“Upstairs,” Enjolras grunts, pushing them both back up and dragging them the rest of the way to his apartment through sheer force of will.

His vision is a blur until they’re inside, the door bolted and shoes kicked off, the cool feel of the wall on his back a previously unknown level of satisfying as Grantaire pins him against it — an insistent knee between his legs, the slide of his tongue hot, filthy, and Enjolras succumbs to it entirely. 

“Of course you’re— Oh, of course you’re fucking good at this,” Grantaire bemoans, voice gravelly between kisses.

“It’s you,” Enjolras replies, “I knew— I knew you would be.”

Grantaire groans at that, and sucks Enjolras’ lower lip into his mouth, pulling at it, nipping lightly, and a ghost of that awful daring look flashes on his face as Enjolras whines. 

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he grins breathlessly.

“Do it again,” Enjolras urges, and Grantaire does, harder; a scrape of teeth up his jaw to his earlobe, and Enjolras is rooted to the spot, couldn’t move even if he wanted to, because _that—_ “ _Fuck_ , R,” he rasps, and that finally gets him what he hadn’t even realised he was waiting for, Grantaire’s own loud moan against the shell of his ear, no shred of restraint. 

He needs more — more of that, more skin against skin, in any form, and his brain kickstarts again. His hands fall from Grantaire’s hair, tracing down over what he can get to — his biceps, his chest, lingering over his ribs; Grantaire’s breathing hitches with a hum, and Enjolras feels the best sense of déja-vu.

He pushes past it, into something new, something further than his dreams, impatience flaring as he grabs the hem of Grantaire’s vest and yanks it up over his head. Grantaire huffs a breath when forced to remove his lips from Enjolras’ throat, but returns to the task without further complaint as Enjolras marvels at his body, the access he’s now granted. 

Grantaire is broad; stocky and solid — all things Enjolras knew by sight, previous passing touches capable of spurning fantasies now incomparable to _this_. Enjolras mouths at his shoulder, scratching deep welts into his back, and Grantaire moans again, the heat in Enjolras’ belly firing impossibly. 

“Still good?” Enjolras pants, question suitably answered when Grantaire drives him further against the wall, the knee between his legs unrelenting.

There, Grantaire makes quick work of unbuttoning Enjolras’ shirt, cursing softly against his neck as he pushes it off his shoulders and discards it to the floor. It takes him a couple of seconds to regain himself, but then he sucks at Enjolras’ collarbone and drags his nails down his chest, down his stomach, and Enjolras knows the sound he makes is ungodly.

“Still good,” Grantaire nods, the brush of his stubble making Enjolras shiver. 

His fingers are calloused, thick-skinned but soft and quick, and Enjolras’ body alights beneath them, glowing hot trails across his skin like hot metal, malleable, pliant to Grantaire’s desires. There’s no further warning before his mouth moves to Enjolras’ nipple, and Enjolras’ lax fingers grab fistfuls of curls, eliciting another perfect sound from Grantaire that vibrates through his chest.

Grantaire's hands move from, fuck, wherever they were — _everywhere_ , Enjolras reckons — encircling his waist, slipping down to grip Enjolras’ ass through his trousers. Enjolras arches into him, harder than ever already, searching for friction, release, _something_ , and there’s an almost profound satisfaction when he’s met with Grantaire’s erection against his thigh.

Grantaire exhales harshly, hands settling on Enjolras’ hips, thumbs brushing under his waistband as he draws back. Their eyes meet, and Enjolras is taken by the haze in Grantaire’s, floored by how his kiss-swollen lips look so much better than he’d ever imagined.

“Yeah?” Grantaire breathes.

Enjolras nods. “Yeah.”

Grantaire kisses him, slower but still desperate, a burning immediacy, and Enjolras kisses back, struggling to breathe through it when Grantaire palms him through his trousers. Somehow he grows harder still, mouth slack against Grantaire’s, another gasped breath when deft fingers undo his fly and push his boxers down, just enough; the night is still humid but Enjolras shivers at the air on his exposed skin. 

He’s practically throbbing, precome leaking from him already, he realises, a moment before Grantaire gently takes him in hand, spreading the slickness over his fingers and down Enjolras’ length, watching Enjolras’ face intently as he all but melts into it.

Nothing and no one has come close to feeling this good before. Grantaire coaxes things from him he’s not sure he’s ever done, sounds and reactions and pure ecstasy. He flits between grips and pressures, pace slow but incessant, thumb and forefinger finding every tender spot, and Enjolras has to focus on simply remaining standing.

It’s not an aim shared by Grantaire. Enjolras reaches for his fly once he’s regained some sense, but barely gets a chance to open it before Grantaire falls to his knees.

In an instant Enjolras realises that his imagination is pitiful, the images previously conjured up pale next to this; Grantaire on his knees before him, hands brushing the backs of his thighs as he pushes his clothes to the floor, breath hot against him as he looks up through his lashes. 

All control escapes Enjolras. 

“Please, Grantaire,” he breathes.

“Yeah?”

“ _Please_.”

His mouth opens, and his tongue — god, his _tongue_ , Enjolras thinks, for the briefest of seconds, before Grantaire presses it to his head, then closes his lips around it. A moan escapes Enjolras’ throat from somewhere deep within him, struck watching how Grantaire’s mouth works over him; he’s slow and purposeful, brow pinched with unwavering concentration, leaning into the touch of Enjolras’ fingers in his hair.

He glances up, eyes meeting Enjolras’, and barely takes a breath before taking him in completely, cock brushing the back of his throat.

Enjolras swears, yells. His head falls back, hitting the wall with a loud thud, hips bucking involuntarily; he tries to stutter an apology, but it dies on his lips as Grantaire moans around him, eyes closed. He repeats the action, but Enjolras restrains himself, and aches after the loss of contact when Grantaire’s mouth leaves him.

“You can, if you want,” he says quietly — that, or Enjolras’ ears are ringing too loudly — “I can take it.”

“I don’t think I can,” Enjolras blurts out, laughing breathlessly, and Grantaire laughs with him.

He presses a hand over Enjolras’ in his hair, a light kiss to his thigh. “Well, I can, so. Don’t worry. Don’t hold back.” 

Enjolras really doesn’t have much choice in that matter, the last murmured with lips pressed back against him, swallowing him back down.

He can’t stand it for too long. He wants this to last, but with Grantaire’s throat tight and hot around him, his capable, clever — _fuck —_ _perfect_ mouth, he’s not going to. He despairs, down to what feels like his very soul, as he pulls Grantaire away and up, swaying on his feet as Enjolras catches him in a slow, sloppy kiss.

His hair is mussed, and he looks intoxicating, irresistible—

“You’re incredible,” Enjolras hums, and Grantaire smiles into his kiss. 

He allows Enjolras’ hands to find their intent this time, the button and zip of his jeans opening easily, a groan cracked through his lips as Enjolras pulls his erection out from the straining denim. Grantaire’s skin is even hotter here, and he unravels in Enjolras’ hand; Enjolras massages him lightly, thoroughly, his own hum of pleasure joining Grantaire’s small, wonderful breathy sounds. 

The rise and fall of his chest increasingly quickens, shuddering a breath when Enjolras tries to push them along.

“ _Fuck—_ Enjolras, I can’t— I can’t walk with your hand—”

Enjolras stops in his tracks and kisses him deeply, disarmingly, his cock twitching in Enjolras’ hand as he gives it a long, painfully slow stroke before pulling away.

“You’re terrible,” Grantaire half gasps, half snarls into his mouth.

Enjolras says the only thing he knows, the only thing he’s ever been one hundred percent certain of, as it’s currently crumbling through his fingers; “You’re impossible.”

Grantaire smiles, a picture of smugness as he kisses his lips again and staggers backwards, pulling Enjolras along with him to the bedroom.

Grantaire’s legs bump at the mattress as they reach the bed and he falls back onto it with a thump, pushing a hand through his own hair when Enjolras uses the opportunity to reach for an old towel and then rid Grantaire of his jeans. He draws back with a huff as he struggles to work them down, the denim tight around Grantaire’s legs in the heat, standing back up to tug at them as Grantaire tries to help, though fruitlessly — his leg kicks out, harshly colliding with Enjolras’ thigh.

“Fuck— Sorry!” he yelps, high-pitched, as Enjolras hisses a breath in through his teeth. 

The adrenaline lets him laugh at the impact, which probably would’ve hurt a lot more under normal circumstances, the pain after the initial shock dissipating quickly.

They speak at the same time:

“I’m fine.”

“Are you okay?”

Enjolras nods as he sighs out the last of a laugh, slipping the end of the jeans off easily, as though they hadn’t just posed a problem, and breathes in quiet awe as he finally takes in the sight of Grantaire lying naked, hard, before him. He traces a hand down Grantaire’s side, coming to rest where his leg meets his hip, a rush of arousal when Grantaire jumps at the touch. 

“Perfect,” he says, an answer to the question but also very much the only thing he can think right now.

“ _You_ really can’t say that to m— _Oh_ ,” Grantaire whines when Enjolras leans over him, kissing a slow trail down his chest to his abdomen, the shadowed muscles there. 

Enjolras watches in awe as the skin under his lips pales then flushes darker, beautiful pink and red marks blossoming across Grantaire’s body; one blooms in a linework tattoo just below his navel, shading it almost. 

“Do you think I’d lie to you?” he asks.

“You’re— You are, somehow, only human, so yes, I imagine you do lie sometimes.”

“Do you think I’d lie right now?” Enjolras looks up, hand ghosting over Grantaire again, and his eyes go wide.

“No,” he shakes his head bluntly, “No, I don’t think you would. But then again—”

“Grantaire.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll— Ohh, _fuck_ ,” Grantaire groans as Enjolras finally presses his tongue to the base of his cock, trailing up and along to his head as slowly as he can manage. He swirls his tongue around the sensitive underside as he presses on further, and Grantaire moans beautifully, endlessly.

He continues on, taking his time, memorising each reaction he gets, repeating actions that draw out what he’s decided are his favourite sounds from Grantaire’s mouth. He drags his hair tie out when Grantaire’s hand winds its way into his curls, already half loose anyway, noticing that that alone elicits another new sound which sends a bolt of frisson down Enjolras’ spine.

“Oh _god_ ,” Grantaire whines, “Stop smiling.”

Enjolras breathes a laugh as he pulls off. “Why?”

“You’re ruining me.” Grantaire shakes his head, drags a hand through his hair, his cheeks flushed dark and smiling despite himself. 

Enjolras joins him, smiling again, teasing him with his thumb as he presses his lips back onto him with a light kiss. “Good,” he mutters, only for Grantaire to buck up into his mouth. 

“Fucking— _Here_ ,” he grasps at Enjolras’ hair harder, and he climbs up the bed willingly, enraptured again when Grantaire licks his way into his mouth. 

He lets Grantaire lead, and the desperation takes a backseat; he lavishes attention over what feels like every inch of Enjolras’ skin, his fingers and mouth burning ice cold, and the trail he leaves bursts into flames. Enjolras can’t quite tell how long it’s just this, just their bodies pressed together, roaming hands and starving tongues; Grantaire’s fingers inch further down, massaging Enjolras’ entrance, and Enjolras’ breath catches.

It feels cruel the way both Grantaire’s hands leave him for a moment, though not without good reason. Grantaire’s choice for the regular lube may well have been intentional, or simply just blindly grabbed for from the bedside drawer, but Enjolras is grateful nonetheless, wary that the ‘extra sensation’ one he solely uses on himself would likely make him come immediately or possibly even fucking _explode_ right now.

Grantaire dips his head against his chest, his kiss light and voice hushed. “What do you want?”

Enjolras feels every hair stand on end, the quivering bliss of pure anticipation. “Everything,” he breathes.

He feels Grantaire smile against him before pulling another kiss at his skin, and Enjolras curves up into it as he continues lower, settling between his legs. He hitches Enjolras’ knees up over his shoulders and kisses at his thighs, sinking his teeth into sensitive skin, slow and agonising. 

“Tell me again,” he murmurs.

“I want— _Oh—_ Everything, R, everything.”

A hand disappears; the click of the lube bottle pump, and a moment in which Enjolras regains a steady composure. 

“Again,” Grantaire repeats gently, fingers back where they should be, slick and warm and—

“I want everything from you, Grantaire.”

He meets Enjolras’ gaze with a quiet surety, voice barely a whisper when he speaks. “It’s already yours.”

Grantaire gives him everything anyway. He takes Enjolras back into his mouth as he works him up, removing his mouth and adding a second finger when Enjolras begins bucking against the first desperately. The curl of his fingers is precise, so much better than Enjolras’ own — he’s not sure how he even managed on his own before, and it drives him senseless, nails biting deep into Grantaire’s shoulders. 

Enjolras finds the condom when Grantaire asks after it, tearing the wrapper open with his teeth, his hands sweaty and shaking and useless. He pulls Grantaire up and closer to roll it onto him, then reaches aimlessly for the bottle of lube, squeezing some onto his hand and wrapping it around Grantaire, smothering him with encouraging strokes before spreading the excess on himself. Grantaire gasps when the action makes Enjolras tense around his fingers, regaining some urgency and retracting them carefully, adjusting position to align himself instead.

Something indiscernible crosses his features, his eyes searching Enjolras’. “You… You tell me if—”

“Yeah,” Enjolras nods, and closes the little distance between their foreheads, their lips meeting in a press of an open-mouthed kiss. 

“Okay,” Grantaire says as they part, mostly to himself, reassured further when Enjolras kisses his cheek with another nod, steadying him with a hand on his hip.

He presses in slowly, and Enjolras only gets a glimpse of Grantaire's extremely concentrated expression before his eyes roll shut, a gasp on his lips which Grantaire echoes once he settles inside.

He gives Enjolras as much time as he needs, only beginning in earnest when a smile touches Enjolras’ lips, the stretch giving way to new pleasure. His entire body buzzes with it, fidgeting and pushing up to meet Grantaire’s rhythm instinctively, and Grantaire moans against him, surrounding him — the scent of his skin, the taste of his lips, everywhere, everything.

Grantaire quickly learns what Enjolras likes, things he’d not quite consciously realised himself: a slow but insistent rhythm, a strong hand on his back — Enjolras kisses at his bicep, the muscles taut with strain, and Grantaire rolls his whole body against Enjolras’, further into him, precisely hitting the spot. Enjolras twists with a wordless moan, almost missing the way Grantaire responds in kind, head falling forward onto Enjolras’ chest.

“Gorgeous,” he croons, and that alone is exhilarating enough, but then he reaches a hand between them to stroke Enjolras again; Enjolras’ back arches harshly, Grantaire’s lips back at his throat, and— _Oh_ , that’s what he needs. 

He searches for Grantaire’s mouth hastily, kissing him as he pushes them up and rolls them over carefully until he's straddling Grantaire’s hips, and Grantaire chases after Enjolras’ lips as he pulls away. 

“Up,” Enjolras says. 

“Up?”

“Sit up.”

“Oh. _Oh_.”

Grantaire does as instructed, eyes roving Enjolras’ body hungrily, hands slipping down to grab at his ass, humming contently into Enjolras’ kiss. He breaks it to help realign, guiding himself back in easily, and Enjolras settles with a low moan. 

“Okay?” Grantaire asks. 

Enjolras nods with a smile before his hips roll, the sensation cutting off any further answer.

Grantaire grasps at him. “Again,” he pants, “That, again.”

“Mhm,” Enjolras nods as he obliges, finding a steady pace which Grantaire thrusts up to meet, taking him in hand again as the other holds him up securely, and Enjolras trembles on the perfect side of unbearable.

A low cadence of reassuring words falls from Grantaire’s lips, and Enjolras tries to commit them to memory, responding with his own, words that Grantaire smiles or gasps at, lips parted and eyes wild. 

“I’ve dreamt of this,” Grantaire says, a confession that Enjolras is sure he’d struggle to make at any other time, so he responds to it immediately, a breath against Grantaire’s cheek. 

“Me too.”

“You haven’t.” It’s not harsh, not a denial, just disbelief.

“I have,” Enjolras hums, moving his head to press against him more directly, “I dream of you, R. I dream of this, of you, you—”

It’s the last full thought he can string together, disjointed from there. He makes a strained effort to slow when he gets close, and he knows Grantaire’s nearly there too; his eyes grow hazier, his kisses messier, his tongue, so sharp earlier, now half useless in his mouth.

Grantaire’s rhythm shifts, only slightly, and a moan catches halfway up Enjolras’ throat, dragged out of him fully when Grantaire’s quick fingers do something perfect, and Enjolras comes, rocking into it helplessly. Grantaire strokes him through it, and Enjolras fights to keep his eyes open, failing for a second, opening again in time to see the moment it hits Grantaire too. He moves to duck his head beneath Enjolras’ chin, but Enjolras tightens his grip in his hair, holding him up; he needs to see this — this, the way Grantaire’s pupils blow out, the way his jaw clenches, the way everything within him writhes.

A couple of their erratic jolts align and they both gasp, gradually slowing, gradually stopping, and Enjolras breathes the last of it out, long and slow against Grantaire’s lips.

The hot air relents, just a fraction, just for them, Enjolras' far-gone mind manages to think, letting the sweat on their skin cool. Grantaire’s hair is damp with his own, curls stuck to his skin, framing his face; Enjolras cards some of them away with his nose as he releases his grip and rests their foreheads together, finally allowing himself to close his eyes. 

His chest feels empty, even with his lungs filled on the deepest breath, hollowed out to allow space for something lighter than air, only tethered down by the heaviness in his breast, an anchor tied only to Grantaire. He presses a semblance of a kiss to Grantaire’s lips, who makes his best effort to reciprocate it, and gradually it does become a kiss. 

There’s a slight shift between them, and Grantaire bumps his nose to Enjolras' jaw, nodding. Enjolras sits forward on his knees to lift himself off, legs shaking and losing balance until Grantaire steadies him with both hands on his back.

“I’ve got you,” he hums, and the sure gentleness of those words strikes Enjolras to his core, pulling Grantaire into a soft kiss once sat back on the towel.

He catches his breath, or at least part of it, as Grantaire discards the condom, fingers shaking as he ties a knot; Enjolras can’t muster the energy to reach for a tissue, blinking dazed as he watches Grantaire get one and wipe himself down, stuffing the condom inside it when he’s done. He’s pulled back closer to reality when Grantaire brushes the tissue over his stomach delicately, not having realised the mess on himself too, and sighs with a smile.

“Remember when you said I was allowed to enjoy sex?”

Grantaire chokes out a laugh, shaking his head at the soiled tissue in his hand, and Enjolras can’t stop himself from laughing with him. “Yeah,” he nods, “Yeah I remember.”

Enjolras hums. “I’ve never enjoyed it that much before.”

Grantaire looks at him, puzzled, a small crease in his brow. “You… You’ve never come during—”

“No— No, I have, I just,” Enjolras pauses to collect his currently very-few thoughts, a shiver added to his continued trembling when Grantaire runs a hand up his arm soothingly. “I just get it now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

He glances at Grantaire’s lips, the slightest twitch of a tentative smile pulling at the corners, and Grantaire closes the distance when Enjolras leans in. It’s softer than their first, which already feels like an age ago, Enjolras’ lips now accustomed to Grantaire’s, to his tongue, his touch, but still lit up by it. He’s not sure if that thrill will ever stop.

“This is… This isn’t just..?” he starts, searching Grantaire’s eyes when they open, his understanding immediate.

“No, it’s— As long as you..? Yeah. Yeah, I want this. More. If you want?”

“I do want.”

Grantaire nods, and Enjolras kisses him again, thumbs tracing lines where they rest on Grantaire’s back.

“We haven’t been great at addressing things directly, so I just wanted to…”

“Yeah.”

“Make sure.”

“And you are?” Grantaire asks, drawing back slightly further.

“I am. Are you?”

“Definitely. Can’t really play it cool right now, can I?” he gestures with the tissue before throwing it in the general direction of the bin.

“No, you can’t,” Enjolras smiles, “Me neither.”

“Mm. You kissed me,” Grantaire murmurs, and Enjolras can only smile wider.

“A few times, yeah.”

“No, but _you_ kissed me first. I wanted to do it first.”

“You did?” Enjolras blinks at him.

“Yeah. I had a whole plan.”

“What was it?” he asks, intrigued with a quiet delight.

“Well, maybe not a whole plan,” Grantaire shrugs to himself lightly, “Maybe just like, a vague one. Step one, kiss, step two, profit, kinda thing.”

“Mm. Well you were too slow.”

“I was.”

“You can kiss me now,” Enjolras says, eyes bleary but close enough to see the muscles in Grantaire’s face work as he holds back a grin.

“Will I profit?”

“I think so.”

Grantaire leans in swiftly but softly, his kiss one that slowly unfolds, leaving Enjolras breathless and yearning for more.

“I think that was better than my kiss,” he concludes, and Grantaire smiles against his lips.

“Call it a tie?” 

Enjolras nods, drawn into another kiss, and another, each one laced with a murmuring giddiness, drumming close under the surface.

He falls asleep amidst it, pressed up against Grantaire in whichever ways possible; Enjolras has never done this, he’s always taken his leave or his partners have left him, but he sleeps like it’s not new at all, unsure which kiss is the last before unconsciousness claims him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Delaying this has slowly been killing me, but in my defence, I just uploaded two huge chapters at once.  
> I always had the intention of doing a double update at this point which quickly got daunting as I started focusing on them properly — for context, I started writing both of these in early June and it’s now late November. Life comes at you fast. (Pun half intended I guess?)  
> Huge thank you to Beth and Summer for letting me fret to them, true legends.  
> Want to see me fret firsthand? I’m kind of back on tumblr as [revoluticn-writes](https://revoluticn-writes.tumblr.com) — I had my deep fandom days years ago so I'm not into posting much nowadays, I mostly just made it for updates, prompts, fic drabble, and if anyone wants to say hi. (See [this tag](https://revoluticn-writes.tumblr.com/tagged/lnv-ref) for how I picture Les Amis!)  
> Kudos and comments absolutely cherished!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild/suggestive nsfw.

A few times throughout the night Enjolras stirs for a moment, coaxed back to sleep by the contentment settled deep in his bones, the warmth against him, the scent surrounding him. Coffee, paint, coconut.

\---

When he eventually wakes it’s gradual, the further reaches of the outside world making themselves known to him first. It’s hard to tell what time it is, the lazy air of an early summer Sunday making its way in through the window, still open a fraction from the previous evening, one pane latched to the other.

The barest breath of a breeze enters, a slight touch to Enjolras’ feet, and with it comes the slow awareness of his body, of Grantaire beside him, against him even.

He takes stock of everything he knows, can feel without moving, working in from out: his legs tangled with Grantaire’s, the thin sheet pulled over them, ruched at their hips; his hands curled against Grantaire’s chest, the rise and fall of it steady underneath them along with the thud of his heart; his face nestled against Grantaire’s shoulder, Grantaire’s arm a feather touch on his back — everything, every part of him in relation to Grantaire. 

There’s a certain feeling to it, a deep sense of belonging, that this is exactly right, and for once Enjolras chooses to let himself have this. He lies in it for a little while, slowly coming to realise that Grantaire’s heartbeat isn’t exactly as steady as he’d thought. He chances a look up at Grantaire’s face; he looks peaceful, rested — but not quite asleep. 

Enjolras settles back down, pressing a light kiss where his lips come to rest in the crook of Grantaire’s neck, and smiles when a kiss is pressed to his forehead in response. He looks up again as Grantaire blinks his eyes open, meeting Enjolras’ with a smile of his own. 

“Good morning,” Enjolras hums. 

“Good morning— Oh god,” Grantaire croaks out, voice hoarse from sleep — and other things, Enjolras realises, a rush of thoughts reminding him that he’d very likely let himself get too carried away last night, as Grantaire coughs to clear it.

“You okay?” Enjolras asks.

“Mm, yeah. So much for thinking I’d sound sexy.”

“Sorry about that,” he says coyly.

“Don’t be,” Grantaire smiles, reassuring but a touch hesitant, his voice still cracked despite his efforts.

Enjolras brushes a thumb over the dip of his throat, surprising even himself when he speaks. “You do sound sexy,” he says, taken when Grantaire smiles wider. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Their eyes flicker over each other for a second, mirrored twitches of lilting smiles, and they both move in; three almost-chaste kisses, their lips chapped and dry, but Enjolras feels his mind begin to float away already.

“Good morning,” he repeats, half woozy, and Grantaire smiles again.

“Good morning. There, that sounded better.”

Enjolras hums an affirmative and kisses him again, slower, longer, finding that both of their tongues are rough and coarse. He scrunches his nose when they eventually still against each other. “My mouth feels disgusting.”

“Mm, it is,” Grantaire agrees, “So’s mine. I’m gonna kiss you again anyway.”

He does, and Enjolras sinks into it, his whole body finally waking out of sleep and reacting; his hands roam over Grantaire’s face, his hair, pulling him closer when he gently rolls them over to bear down on Enjolras. More memories of last night wash over him, the things that had made Grantaire react, followed by thoughts of all the things he hasn’t yet tried — a kiss to that particular area of skin, a hand on this one, holding him in this way.

Enjolras eventually breaks away begrudgingly to locate a stray hair in his mouth, pulling it out and flicking it away, short and dark.

“One of these,” he murmurs, thumbing over Grantaire’s stubble and kissing at it. He stops to pick at his tongue again, and Grantaire chuckles softly. 

“I suppose I can live without you kissing my face, for your sanity.”

“Try to stop me,” Enjolras says, and kisses Grantaire’s lips, his cheeks, his jaw, again and again. 

It’s Grantaire who pulls away next, dragging a curl still attached to Enjolras’ head out of his mouth with a rueful smile. 

“If it helps, I usually wear this up to sleep,” Enjolras offers, returning the smile. 

“I’ve noticed,” Grantaire nods, “Is there anything in that?”

Enjolras follows his eyeline to the bedside table, momentarily distracted by the state of his things, either askew or tipped over or both, including his water bottle, just millimetres away from rolling off the edge. He reaches for it, almost slipping from his fingertips, but manages to recover it and hands it to Grantaire.

“Thank you,” he hums, and makes to draw away, but Enjolras holds him in place and presses a lingering kiss to his lips.

“You’re welcome.”

That earns him another, though this time he concedes when Grantaire sits up to open the bottle.

Enjolras follows suit, sitting with him and taking in the greater state of the room, which isn’t too bad, all things considered. The linen drawer is still half open, a towel hanging out and stopping it from closing, while the used one lies kicked off to the side and hanging off the bed. Only the hem of Grantaire’s jeans is visible from his vantage point, and he figures that his hair tie must be with them, or lost to him somewhere within the sheets.

He settles for correcting the only thing within reach, setting the bedside clock upright.

“Time’s it?” Grantaire asks.

“Nearly eight.”

He hums as he takes a drink. “Thought so. Did my phone wake you?”

“No?” Enjolras frowns and takes the bottle from him when he offers it, “I don’t think so, anyway.”

“Oh, good. Joly called.”

“Early breakfast date again?” Enjolras smiles, and Grantaire matches it.

“Probably. My insomnia guardian angel.”

The water is old and stale, not helped by the already-climbing temperature, and so Enjolras replaces the bottle on the nightstand and returns Grantaire’s now-thoughtful gaze with a considered look of his own. “Do you have plans today?” he asks.

“Oh, so many plans,” Grantaire nods, softly sarcastic, “I’m all booked up.”

Enjolras scrutinises the familiar playful look in his eye. “What’s on the agenda?”

“Oh, no, I can’t tell you that.”

“No?”

Grantaire shakes his head, hums. “No.”

“Can you show me?” Enjolras asks, drawing nearer as Grantaire makes a mock considering gesture. 

“Mm, depends.”

“On?”

“Do you have plans?”

Enjolras stops a breath away from Grantaire’s lips, his head tilted, anticipation thrumming. “I have a few things in mind.” 

Grantaire’s tongue flits against his lower lip, and he waits a few moments before leaning up; Enjolras pulls away slightly, a spike of pleasure when Grantaire makes an exasperated sound in his throat. His fingers thread into the hair at the nape of Enjolras’ neck, hand gently holding him in place, and this time Enjolras lets Grantaire’s lips meet their target. 

The kiss is over as quickly as it began, but the fire from last night rekindles on contact, and Grantaire instantly pulls him in for another, a chain reaction unfurling. Their hands begin venturing further, encouraged by gasped breaths and shared smiles; Enjolras follows the instinct for more that hasn’t let him down thus far, climbing into Grantaire’s lap, the sheet fully discarded with the movement. Grantaire looks up at him in sheer wonder, hands splayed as he runs them up Enjolras’ thighs, and for the first time in daylight Enjolras sees Grantaire’s eyes darken with unbridled desire.

Grantaire’s kiss seems endless, his lips and hands devoted to finding every way to send a chill across Enjolras’ body, the sensation heightened when Grantaire half picks him up to flip them, and Enjolras moans before he can even fully realise the effect it has on him.

The effect on Grantaire is similar, Enjolras can feel as he continues, his hand smoothing over Enjolras’ thigh, fingers pressing slightly — a light sting shoots through it, nothing to cause concern, but his leg flinches away subconsciously and Grantaire breaks the kiss. 

“You okay?”

“Mm,” Enjolras nods and tilts his head up to kiss him again, but Grantaire looks down, eyes going wide as he draws back. 

“Oh, shit.”

Enjolras frowns and props himself up. “What— Oh.”

There’s a dark bruise blossoming under his skin, deep reds and purples well on their way to black already. If anything, it’s smaller than expected, and it doesn’t look awful, not necessarily, but it’s still a shock to see.

“Does it hurt?” Grantaire asks.

“No.” Enjolras presses a thumb against it to test, an even sharper persistent pain running through it. He grimaces. “Okay, well, maybe it does.”

Grantaire groans and leans forward, pressing his forehead to Enjolras’ shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he says with a defeated laugh.

“You should be,” Enjolras says, suppressing most of his smile when Grantaire looks at him inquisitively. “Who wears skinny jeans in a heatwave?”

“Well, in my defence,” Grantaire starts slowly, “I didn’t know you were gonna be the one pulling them off me.”

Enjolras hums. “You’ll just have to make it up to me.”

“Yeah?” Grantaire’s brow twitches into a curious frown, “How so?”

Enjolras hums again and simply smiles; he hooks his ankles around Grantaire’s waist and lies back, pillowing his arms under his head and letting Grantaire take in the sight. “I’ll let you decide,” he purrs.

Grantaire’s eyes run wild over him, desire giving way to sheer lust. He leans down slowly, hovering over Enjolras’ lips, a teasing ghost of a touch. “You’re terrible,” he murmurs.

“I know.”

\---

Grantaire is insatiable, divine. Enjolras runs out of words to describe him, mind cleared except for pure feeling.

When they’re both sated, Grantaire’s fingers trace a whispering touch over Enjolras’ thigh. “Have I made it up to you?” he asks, a quiet smile, and Enjolras breathes a laugh.

“Definitely.”

He kisses Grantaire’s lips, his forehead, pulling him closer and threading a hand through his hair. Grantaire slowly dozes off against his chest, and it’s not long before Enjolras joins him. 

\---

They drift in and out of sleep, scattering kisses in the occasional few moments either of them rouses, until they’re both pulled from it when Grantaire’s phone rings again. 

“I’m gonna throw that fucking thing out the window,” Grantaire huffs.

“Mm. We are all pretty codependent,” Enjolras mumbles as he comes around, and that reminder seems to wake Grantaire up. 

“Shit,” he mutters, raising his head far too quickly for Enjolras’ liking to glance at the clock, “ _Shit_ , it’s probably Éponine. She’s taking Gav boxing today— Well, _took_ him, I guess. She’s probably in my apartment wondering where the hell I am.”

Enjolras reaches up to sift a hand through Grantaire’s hair, an attempt to coax him back down that partially works. “Were you meant to go?”

“I didn’t make any promises, no, but you know what it’s like. I beg off the Musain last night and now I’m not home? It’s sus.”

“Sus with good reason,” Enjolras adds. Grantaire looks at him soberly, the same realisation seeming to come to them at the same moment, and it’s Enjolras who voices it. “You know we have to talk, right?”

Grantaire sighs heavily and makes a show of lying back on the pillow. “Can’t we do it like, I don’t know, telepathically? Are the vibes not simply enough?” he asks, and Enjolras hums a laugh. 

“The vibes are good but no, they’re not enough. C’mon,” he kisses Grantaire’s cheek when he groans, “It’ll be fine.”

“Do you always have to be so logical?”

Enjolras smiles, another kiss. “Yes.”

“I wouldn’t expect any less.”

“Mm.”

“Alright,” Grantaire sighs again, sitting back up, “Let me shoot her a text so she doesn’t send out a search party, then I’m all yours.”

“Mmkay. Breakfast?”

“Cereal?”

“Pastries.”

“Fancy,” Grantaire raises his eyebrows with mock playful delight, leaning in when Enjolras leaves him with a final kiss before peeling himself away.

Every muscle feels heavy, and countless joints crack as he stands up and stretches, groaning when Grantaire huffs a laugh at the sound. He digs through his jeans on the floor as Enjolras sets to fixing the linen drawer, fetching a pair of underwear and a vest to pull on, and has to stop in the doorway to stifle a laugh at the sight of the living room.

Grantaire clambers off the bed with a similar groan — Enjolras spares him a teasing comment — and there’s a smile in his voice when he speaks.

“Looks about right.”

“Yeah.”

Enjolras ignores the trail of clothes and makes for the kitchen, but backtracks, remembering the existence of his own phone and heading to fetch it from his discarded trousers. 

He half jumps as it begins ringing in his hand before he can even look at the notifications, glancing at Grantaire when he laughs under his breath; Grantaire puts a finger to his own lips with a nod and quietly begins filling two glasses of water as Enjolras swipes to answer.

“Hello?”

“Oh wow, you sound rough,” Courfeyrac laughs.

“Good morning to you too,” Enjolras rolls his eyes, gesturing for Grantaire to pass him one of the glasses.

“Okay, well-rested, shall we say?” Courfeyrac corrects, “Cutting it close with ‘morning’, too.”

“Am I?”

“By your standards, yes. I am speaking to Enjolras, right? Like, _our_ Enjolras?”

“Yes, you are,” Enjolras huffs. 

“Good. You okay? You haven’t replied to us?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” he breaks into a yawn — he couldn’t have timed it better if he’d tried — “Sorry, just woke up.”

“No shit. Good sleep?”

“Mm,” Enjolras smiles at Grantaire, shaking his head when he offers out a nicotine patch, “Very good.”

“ _Gooood_ ,” Courfeyrac drawls out, “So, are you coming with us? Need an answer like asap.”

“I barely got the chance to read anything, where are you going?”

“Lunch somewhere, I don’t know.”

“It’s not even noon.”

“Brunch, then. Ferre got impatient—”

“ _You_ got impatient,” Combeferre interjects somewhere in the background. 

“Okay, _I_ got impatient, I had one shot too many last night and now I’m ravenous, so what’s it gonna be? We can come get you, find somewhere—” 

“No— No, I uh,” Enjolras bites his lip and hopes the interruption wasn’t too sudden, “I’ve got a lot of stuff to do today, sorry. You two go on without me.”

Courfeyrac hesitates before speaking, which is worrying in itself. “You do know we’re not like, I don’t know, constantly eating each other’s faces, right?”

Enjolras frowns. “Yeah? Courf, I— Am I on speaker?”

“Maybe,” Courfeyrac hums, and Enjolras rolls his eyes.

“Hi Ferre.”

“Hey.”

“Listen,” he starts, watching as Grantaire steals away the plate of pastries he’d stacked up, leaving Enjolras alone in the kitchen for this conversation. “I’m not avoiding you, I promise. I told you I wasn’t worried about this, and I’d tell you if something was wrong.”

“Would you?”

“Okay,” Enjolras cringes, pulling a face — he deserved that one, he supposes — “Look, I know I haven’t done much to make you believe that recently—”

“You haven’t, no.”

“But I’m telling the truth. I’m not avoiding you. You’re a great thing, you know that I think that. I love you, both of you, together.”

“Hm. Gay,” Courfeyrac mutters, and Enjolras smiles a sigh of relief.

“Very, yes. We could get lunch in the week? When are you free?”

“Talk about it after the meeting tomorrow?” Combeferre supplies, “Courf looks like he’s about to eat his own hand.”

Enjolras nods, the meeting having slipped his mind entirely. “No problem. Enjoy brunch.”

“ _Merciii_ ,” Courfeyrac sing-songs, the three saying various goodbyes before hanging up.

Enjolras skims through his other notifications as he wanders over to where Grantaire is sat on the floor beside the coffee table, then puts the phone aside, sitting on the cushion Grantaire had placed for him.

“Do you actually need to do stuff today?” Grantaire asks.

“I need to wash my hair at some point.” 

“Ah. So you were lying when you told them you were telling the truth?”

“No. That was about them. I said I’m not avoiding them and I’m not. I’m just otherwise occupied.”

Grantaire smiles at that and pops a torn piece of pastry into his mouth, his expression becoming thoughtful as he chews, and Enjolras can sense his train of thought. 

“How do we tell them?” Enjolras finally asks.

“I was hoping you’d have an answer to that.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s…” Grantaire starts, pausing to fall into deep thought for a few more moments before continuing. “Maybe… Maybe the question is do we tell them?” 

Enjolras cocks his head as he considers it. “You mean like… What do you mean?”

“I mean I literally want to shout about this from the Eiffel fucking Tower, but it’s suffocating having them watch our every move when neither of us have much experience with this. I love them but they didn’t exactly help things back in the day.”

“‘Back in the day’?” Enjolras repeats, and Grantaire looks almost sorry when he meets his eye.

“You really don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?” Enjolras shakes his head, confused. 

“I had a badly-managed crush on you,” Grantaire says after shrugging. There’s a nonchalance to it that Enjolras can tell isn’t fake, though the legitimacy of Grantaire’s movements is hardly the thing he’s focusing on right now.

“You… You what?”

Grantaire simply watches him and takes another bite, as though he hasn’t just dropped a bombshell, licking a flake of pastry off his thumb as he waits for Enjolras to dig through his memory.

“Oh my god,” Enjolras murmurs, and then louder, “Oh my god, you did.”

It’s not a question, but Grantaire answers as such. “Yeah, I did.”

“And I didn’t notice.”

“No.”

“Oh my god. Oh my _god_.”

“Enjolras—”

“How didn’t I notice?”

“Because you’re terrible.”

Enjolras breathes a sudden laugh at that, the lightness of Grantaire’s tone warm, his smile even warmer.

“Honestly, it’s… a relief? I guess? That you didn’t notice. Like, if you had realised and were just constantly rejecting me? I would’ve been mortified.”

Enjolras shakes his head again, words lost to him for what feels like the hundredth time in the past twenty-four hours. “I didn’t know.”

“That’s okay,” Grantaire nods sincerely, “You’re oblivious as hell, but that’s okay.”

“I noticed this time?” Enjolras says in defence, but knows he sounds unsure.

“You did, yeah, but this is different.”

“How?”

“Well, we know each other better, for starters. You seemed more than interested this time, and I actually put the effort in instead of just teasing you for the hell of it.”

“So… Is that why—”

“I got all shitty about Adrien?”

“—you— That’s not what I was gonna say.”

“Oh.”

“But I did kinda figure. Recently, not at the time.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire scratches at his head, and Enjolras can see the effort he makes to look him in the eye. “I just, I don’t know, I got my hopes up after sleeping here a couple times.”

Enjolras nods, mind swimming as he tries to find the words to tell Grantaire the whole story of that night, but his thoughts are shelved for later as Grantaire speaks again.

“What were you gonna say?”

“Hm? Oh. Just, that’s why you called me Apollo.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Grantaire’s eyes widen, “Yeah. Kinda egged myself on with that one. Got hard to stop.”

“And I never noticed. Fuck, R, I’m sorry,” Enjolras says, quietly exasperated. “We could’ve had years—”

“I think it’s better that we didn’t,” Grantaire says gently, stopping Enjolras before he can spiral.

“You do?” he asks. 

“Yeah. Think about it, if I’d asked you out at the peak of it, you were what, nineteen, and I was twenty-one? In the slim chance you even would’ve said yes to me, it wouldn’t have worked. We were both going through shit. You weren’t out to your parents, not that I give a shit about being out, but that was rough for you, and then I was still digging my way to rock bottom. No way,” Grantaire follows his multitude of gestures by shaking his head resolutely, “What we have is much better than some fumbled relationship that would’ve taken years to recover from.”

The simple direct address that they have something overwhelms Enjolras, and he pulls Grantaire in, kissing him softly, but making it last, and resting their foreheads together when they part. “You’re right,” he nods.

“Love hearing you say I’m right,” Grantaire grins playfully, and Enjolras pinches him. 

“Shut up.”

“Ah, there you are.”

Enjolras smiles and kisses him again just to shut him up, just because he can. “So we’re not telling them yet?” he eventually asks, and Grantaire shrugs.

“We can, if you want. I just figured—”

“No, no I agree.”

“It doesn’t have to be long, just like, a week or so?”

“That’s fine. They are getting better, y’know,” Enjolras adds, “Ferre and Courf haven’t even asked who I supposedly ‘went on a date’ with the other week.”

Grantaire smiles at the memory. “What would you even tell them?”

“I don’t know. An old friend from uni?” 

“Technically not lying,” Grantaire notes. “Did you see it as a date? Like, at the time?”

“Honestly, no.”

“Me neither. Just hanging out with a friend I was increasingly gaining a crush on.”

Enjolras hums. “So it went away for a while?”

“What?”

“The crush.”

“Oh, yeah. I mean, you’ve only gotten more attractive, so that never went away. You have to make things difficult,” he grins when Enjolras rolls his eyes, “But yeah, that need for validation, or just anything from you, I guess, went away. For years. And then you asked me to sleep over, and I don’t know. It was back, but it wasn’t? Like I said, it’s different. Better.”

“Healthier.”

“Yeah, that. This time it’s because you’re charming, and insightful, and funny, and I don’t know if I mentioned it but you’re really fucking attractive.”

“You may have said it,” Enjolras barely contains a laugh. 

“Yeah, maybe.”

“You can say it again, if you want.”

“Okay, don’t push it,” Grantaire warns, laughing when Enjolras finally does and pulling him in for a kiss. 

“You’re very attractive too,” Enjolras says against his lips, and Grantaire hums. 

“Rel said you were ogling me.”

Enjolras groans, but he’s less embarrassed than he figures he should be when Grantaire laughs. “I thought he didn’t notice.”

“Oh, he did,” Grantaire nods, “Granted, I didn’t notice that time, but every other time you haven’t exactly been subtle.” He drums his fingers on Enjolras’ leg as he finishes shaking his head at himself ruefully. “Is there anything else?”

“Probably,” Enjolras shrugs, “But nothing urgent comes to mind. We’ve got time.”

“Mm. What do you wanna do?” It’s an innocent question, Grantaire’s fingers now drawing circles on Enjolras’ forearm, but Enjolras can’t resist the opportunity.

“Anything you want,” he says, the direct look that Grantaire gives him making it worth it, and then some.

“You’ll regret giving me this much power, y’know.”

“Try me.”

“Oh, I will.”

\---

The day is spent lounging, alternating between disconnected thoughts and streams of kisses, amidst analyses of shared histories under new light. 

Grantaire finally gives in to using the “luxury” of Enjolras’ shower, convinced by Enjolras’ proposition to share it; afterward, Enjolras pulls his hair back into a scarf as it dries, and Grantaire revels in the easy access he gets to Enjolras’ neck, spreading kisses that devour him.

They take their time with each other, the fuel of desperate urgency no longer needed, replaced instead by the silent recognition that their time isn’t borrowed, this moment isn’t stolen, the world won’t come crashing down around them.

The sun is just beginning to dip below the rooftopped horizon when Grantaire caresses Enjolras’ side, pressed up against each other on the couch despite the heat.

“Enjolras,” he moans, then speaks clearer, “Enjolras, I don’t think anything else is gonna come outta me today. Three’s the limit.”

Enjolras laughs into his chest, the vibrations of Grantaire laughing underneath him running through him. “Okay,” he presses a light kiss to the skin he’d just been nipping at, “Just this then? No more?”

“Mm. Even this is a special kind of torture, but one I guess I’ll have to get used to, so yeah. Just this.”

“What an awful thing to get used to,” Enjolras quips, and Grantaire barks another laugh, pulling him up and closer for a long kiss. “I wish I didn’t have to work tomorrow.”

“Can’t work from here?”

“No. I’m leading a workshop first thing and then I have stuff to do at the office.”

“Hm. Want me to come along, set up camp under your desk? Table service, just tap me when you need me,” Grantaire winks to punctuate the proposition, wicked grin dissolving into a laugh when Enjolras does.

“I’m sure my colleagues would appreciate that.”

“They would. Léa told me you don’t take enough breaks.”

“Mm, I’ll be fine. At least you have the option to be alone,” he starts, but cuts himself off with a moan as Grantaire kisses the corner of his jaw and sucks his earlobe into his mouth. Right, _that_ , he thinks, and tries to continue, though he half slurs. “I have to be around people all day— thinking of you and— trying to control myself— _Fuck_ , R—”

Grantaire finishes his onslaught, his hand beginning a steady trail down past Enjolras’ navel instead, voice low as he murmurs into Enjolras’ ear. “Sounds hard.” 

Enjolras shivers. “Very hard,” he agrees.

Grantaire’s hand comes to rest, and their eyes meet. Three isn’t their limit after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy (late) holidays! Coming in clutch with one day of the month (and year) left. Could I have cut this down a bit and saved myself some time? Probably, but did I want to? Hell no, they deserve this.  
> Thank you so much for all the love on the last update, from the one-liner comments to the essays (which I’m still reeling from, holy shit), I appreciate them all so much I can’t even say. I never thought this fic would run into 2021, but then again I never thought I’d be writing fic in 2020 at all, so there’s that. I’ll update asap, but in the meantime thank you for helping to keep me going, and have as happy a new year as you can!  
> Edit: an addendum from Grantaire's POV [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28793295).


	18. Chapter 18

“ _Fuck_ ,” Grantaire groans, the second noise Enjolras hears as he wakes, the first being his alarm. “I get like, fight or flight response to that shit.”

Enjolras hums as he reaches for his phone and switches it off. “Want me to pick a nicer sound?”

“Mm, s’okay,” Grantaire nuzzles his face into the back of Enjolras’ neck as he settles back in place, “This is fine.”

Enjolras smiles and laces his hand into Grantaire’s against his stomach, turning as little as he needs to press a kiss to Grantaire’s face, and feels the soft exhale on his skin as Grantaire smiles too. He presses a kiss to Enjolras’ cheek in return, followed by more peppered across his face; Enjolras laughs lightly, and turns over to meet his lips properly.

Even in the haze of sleep, Enjolras still finds himself amazed by this, the softness of Grantaire’s skin against his, the way Grantaire’s hand shapes itself on his back to hold him closer, fingers dancing over his spine. Goosebumps arise across his body at the touch, a fresh wave of them before the first is even over when Grantaire murmurs against his jaw.

“How long til you have to start getting ready?”

“Half hour.”

“Half hour,” Grantaire repeats, nodding, “We can work with that.”

“We can,” Enjolras agrees, his lips parted on a breath, and Grantaire accepts the wordless invitation.

\---

The world feels too close and too vivid when they eventually step outside. Everything is bright, shining in the hot morning sun, and Enjolras squints as he pulls the building door shut behind him and turns to Grantaire — he seems equally as overwhelmed at the bustle around them, his fingers tapping his thighs, the space in front of him seeming too empty, and so Enjolras steps up to him.

“Well, I didn’t think this would be how I’d get my shorts and bag back,” Grantaire says, visibly eased as he screws up one eye, his smile somewhere between lopsided and smirking.

“Thanks for letting me borrow them.”

“Anytime. Thanks for lending me this t-shirt.”

“Anytime,” Enjolras imitates; Grantaire twitches an eyebrow, smile replaced with a touch of a daring grin.

“Guess you’ll have to come get it back off me at some point.”

“Guess so.”

It’s impossible for Enjolras to stop himself from smiling, moreso when Grantaire leans in to kiss him — anyone could see, anyone could find them out, but right now Enjolras finds he has no will to care. He lets the moment linger, blinking out of it a few seconds after Grantaire pulls away.

“Where are you heading?” Enjolras asks, rubbing his thumb over Grantaire’s arm. 

“Uh, I think I need to buy food and shit, but that can wait,” he shrugs, “My apartment might’ve forgotten I exist. Gavroche might’ve robbed me.”

“Wasn’t Éponine with him?”

“She might’ve robbed me too.” Grantaire smirks when Enjolras laughs at that. “Have an awful day trying not to think of me.”

“I will,” Enjolras wets his lips and smiles, “I guarantee it.”  
  
Grantaire sees the signal and kisses him again; this one is softer, tender, and Enjolras bumps their noses when they part.

“See you later,” he says, finding Grantaire’s hand and squeezing it briefly. 

Grantaire squeezes back. “See you.”

Enjolras isn’t sure how he finds it in himself to walk away, but he does, as does Grantaire, turning to leave with a somehow-gentle wink. The image of it sticks in Enjolras’ mind, glimpses of the weekend playing on loop as he walks: the look in Grantaire’s eye as they’d gone through his sketches in detail, reminiscing hopes that had come to pass and youthful naiveties; the sound of Grantaire’s voice, the difference between a rogue laugh before a punchline and a hushed whisper in Enjolras’ ear; the press of his fingers, his lips, anywhere and everywhere, again and again—

Enjolras breathes in deeply, the scent of the trees caught on the breeze mingling with hot concrete, a sweet summer air that grounds him.

He throws a glance over his shoulder before he rounds the corner; Grantaire is a long distance down the street now, and Enjolras slows to watch as he rakes both hands through his hair before pulling it into a hair tie, the amount of too-short flyaways leaving him with a half-up, half-down look. 

Enjolras smiles to himself, and turns back on his way.

\---

Morning workshops are a rarity, the majority of attendees made up of keen university students like Enjolras had once been — and still is, minus the student aspect — and so more often than not those sessions are left up to him. Today, they’re immature and hyper and _loud_ for half nine on a Monday morning, and yet Enjolras holds one of the best workshops of his life, the loudness channelling into something good. 

Grantaire is mysteriously silent throughout the morning, but Enjolras didn’t expect anything, or at least he thought he didn’t, until he realises he’s glancing at his notifications with increasing frequency toward the workshop end. He’s back in the office typing an email by the time it eventually buzzes with the correct sound — or chain of sounds, rather — and he stops halfway through a word to read it. 

R: hey  
R: quick question  
R: what the fuck is this  
R sent a photo.

Enjolras blinks as he taps to focus on the picture, taking a couple of seconds to figure out what he’s looking at: it’s Grantaire’s neck, the edges of his hair, stubble, and ear in frame, and also—

Enjolras closes his eyes and drags a hand down his face for a long moment, breathing a rueful laugh before resolving himself enough to hit the call button. Grantaire picks up immediately.

“Hey—”

“You gave me a hickey?”

Enjolras laughs again at Grantaire’s absurd almost-disbelieving tone, descending further into it when Grantaire follows up with a futile “don’t laugh” despite his own light laughter.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras eventually manages, his chest still bubbling with it.

“Yeah, you should be,” Grantaire starts, but Enjolras can hear that he’s still smiling. “Éponine pointed it out to me, of all people.”

That makes him stop. “What?”

“Yeah, exactly. I crashed on the couch like, immediately when I got home, and then I woke up with her standing over me like some kind of vulture. Scared the shit outta me. Gonna have to remember to chain the door from now on,” Grantaire trails off, his calm tone inspiring hope for a manageable outcome at least.

“What did she say?” Enjolras ventures.

“Not much, really,” Grantaire seems to shrug, “Just told me to give her a heads up next time.”

“‘A heads up’,” Enjolras repeats drolly.

“Yeah, tell me about it. I’d like to see her give me a heads up when— Yeah, anyway,” Grantaire stops himself, but Enjolras sees his train of thought.

“Cosette?”

“So you do know.”

Enjolras hums. “I’d say it’s obvious but I’ve been told I’m oblivious.”

“I wonder why. Speaking of, couldn’t you have given me a heads up about this thing on my neck?”

“Honestly, I didn’t notice it. I think maybe it’s from this morning?” Enjolras wonders aloud, a brief memory of Grantaire’s breath stuttering, Enjolras’ lips at the spot he’s learnt Grantaire loves. “Doesn’t your hair cover it?” he asks, shaking the vision away.

“Yeah, kinda, but—”

“It was tied up,” Enjolras sighs. “Sorry.”

“Mm, I’ll get you back,” Grantaire assures, voice waning before he yawns. “God, you’ve worn me out. I don’t know how you’re so awake right now, I’m exhausted.”

“Coffee,” Enjolras says bluntly, and Grantaire chuckles.

“I’m not touching the stuff today, I haven’t been this genuinely tired in months. It’s not gonna last long, but fuck, I’ll take it while I’ve got it.”

“Happy to help you sleep,” Enjolras smiles. 

“You’re more than welcome to keep me awake too,” Grantaire says, his dark tone changing as though he can see Enjolras’ now-wanton grin. “Are you at the office or..?”

“Yeah.”

“Should we be speaking so… y’know?”

“It’s fine, everyone’s still out for lunch.”

There’s a long pause on the line. “And why aren’t you?”

“Because I have stuff to—”

“Sure you do,” Grantaire huffs fondly, and Enjolras matches him, rolling his eyes.

“Well I’ve stopped to talk to you, haven’t I?”

Grantaire hums noncommittally, whatever he’s about to quip back with interrupted as both of their phones ping; Enjolras frowns and pulls it from his ear to check the source.

 **alphabet soup**  
Comb: Meeting reminder, Musain, tonight @ 18h  
Coucou: Be there or be a loser or something

“Ah fuck, I forgot about the meeting,” Grantaire sighs.

“We literally spoke about it this morning.”

“I’m half convinced I dreamt this morning, let alone the whole weekend.”

“I know,” Enjolras muses, memories stirring yet again. “Are we doing something after the meeting?”

“Something?” Grantaire repeats lightly, suggestively.

“Yeah, something,” Enjolras confirms, equally obtuse.

“I’m more than up for doing something, yes. Do you wanna do something?”

“I do, yes.”

“Mm. Lucky coincidence.”

“Very lucky,” Enjolras nods, reigning in what must be a giddy expression as the office door opens. “Listen, I gotta go,” he says.

“Lunch break over?” Grantaire guesses, and Enjolras smiles.

“Looks like it. See you tonight.”

“See you.”

\---

“Sorry I’m late, the Metro’s rammed,” Enjolras sighs, exasperated as he catches Combeferre’s eye down the corridor to the Musain’s back room. He strides in at full speed, swinging his bag off his shoulder to dig his folder out.

“You’re literally still ten minutes early,” Marius points out, dodging out of the way as he walks past.   
  
“God forbid he gets here any later than 5:45,” Courfeyrac grins, touching Enjolras’ arm when he smiles in response. “You feeling better?” he asks quietly. 

There’s a loud thrill of energy in the room already, the lines between conversations blurred as people flit around in preparation, and Enjolras feels the rush of it seep into his veins. “Much better,” he nods, placing his things on their table, smiling wider when Combeferre squeezes his other arm. 

It feels like second nature to turn and find Grantaire, sitting in his usual seat at the most secluded end of the bar, currently surrounded by Joly, Bossuet and Bahorel; he's changed out of Enjolras’ t-shirt into his own, his eyes bright as he laughs at whatever Joly is saying. He looks at Enjolras a moment later, a hint of a smile just visible as he brings a bottle to his lips — non-alcoholic for meetings, Enjolras knows, unsure why he even drinks that particular brand with how often he bemoans the taste.

Enjolras smiles back at him — slightly, but just enough, spurred on as he grabs his empty water bottle.

“Drinks?” he asks, shaking the bottle — Combeferre hands over his own with his thanks while Courfeyrac declines, and Enjolras heads to the bar. 

He slots into the space beside Joly, but is denied the chance to join in the current conversation as Jehan sidles up to him, a hand softly sliding up his arm as he presses a kiss to Enjolras’ cheek.

“Good evening,” Jehan hums, and Enjolras returns it. “How’re you feeling? Ferre said you needed the weekend off.”

“Yeah, I’m good. Really good,” Enjolras says, and he can tell that Jehan sees the truth in it, smiling brightly at him. 

“Excellent,” he says, squeezing Enjolras’ arm warmly.

There’s a trickle of laughter from Enjolras’ other side, Jehan’s eyes flickering over his shoulder as he tunes into the conversation.

“No, no, turn to the side again, let me see—”

“Tie this shit back, man, show it off—”

“Fuck off, dude.” 

Enjolras tries to turn, but only gets a brief glimpse of Grantaire swatting Bahorel’s hand away from his hair before Jehan speaks up again. 

“When’s that book from work coming out?”

“Uh, I think printing is next month,” Enjolras blinks as he tries to concentrate, but his attention is irreversibly drawn to Joly’s voice behind him, and Jehan half grimaces as Enjolras turns again.

“You told me you slept in?”

“Oh, you got ‘slept in’?” Bahorel starts with a mock casual curiosity, “What was it he told me? ‘Can’t come to the club today, Rel, I’m busy’, wasn’t it?”

Bossuet nods. “Ah, yeah, ‘busy’.”

“Yeah, it’s the busyness that’ll get you,” Joly says matter-of-factly, his grin matching Bossuet’s.

“Yeah, alright, I get it.”

“Reap what you sow, dude,” Bossuet says as Bahorel pats Grantaire’s shoulder with an unrepentant grin.

“So who was it?” Joly asks.

“Just…” Grantaire shakes his head, frowns, “Just an old friend from uni, okay? Drop it.” He meets Enjolras’ eye for a fraction of a second, but it’s enough of a look for Enjolras to see that he knows exactly what he just did.

Bossuet raises his eyebrows. “So you’re just gonna kiss and not tell?” he scoffs, scrutinising the stolen lie but thrilled by it nonetheless.

“Nah, guys, c’mon, cut him some slack” Bahorel taps Bossuet and Grantaire’s arms in turn, “He’s more of a ‘suck it and say’ kinda guy.”

Joly and Bossuet erupt into laughter; Musichetta offers Enjolras a small smile as she starts on the refills, while Jehan brushes his arm again, but Grantaire’s scoff wins the battle for his attention.

“Slander?” he says, hands held out in pathetic defence, and Enjolras responds automatically.

“It has to be false for it to be slander.”

It’s light enough to not sound accusatory, but not entirely playful, and somehow it works. They all stifle their laughs as they look at him, half shocked, while Grantaire looks dumbfounded. 

“He’s not wrong,” Bossuet points after a moment.

“You’d also need to prove—”

“The fuck do you know about law?” Grantaire interrupts Bahorel incredulously, and the predictable response comes from all three in return.

“ _Never a lawyer_ ,” Bahorel, Joly and Bossuet chant; Grantaire finally smiles, though Enjolras hears no further, a light touch on his shoulder. 

“Enjolras?”

“Hm?”

“Wanna come speak to the newcomers?” Jehan asks, gesturing with his head to where Feuilly is standing, chatting to a table of unfamiliar faces.

Enjolras blinks as he re-centres himself, nodding in thanks as Musichetta passes the refilled bottles back over. “Uh, yeah, sure,” he says, and Jehan smiles.

“C’mon.”

He lets Jehan whisk him away into a flurry of greetings and introductions, a sense of normalcy gradually setting back in as they speak until Courfeyrac calls for a start to things. Enjolras remains standing as people drift into their usual seats, gathering his notes and surveying the room as conversations draw to a close, an attentive quiet settling in.

Grantaire briefly catches his eye — it’s a moment that occurs almost every meeting, one in which he can easily read Grantaire’s mood, as well as realising his own. This time it seems to draw out longer, a shine in Grantaire’s face as he fiddles with the pencil in his hand, scraps of paper laid out in front of him on the bar.

Enjolras smiles. “Everyone ready?” he asks, met with smiles and quiet murmurs of affirmatives. “Excellent. Let’s begin.”

\---

Meetings are a highlight of any week wherein they occur, but better than the meeting itself is the feeling afterward, the fulfilment of productivity laced with the simple joy of everyone together, a mass shift set in motion as tables are reconfigured yet again to sit down to sharing platters of whatever’s on the menu today.

Courfeyrac moves from Enjolras’ side to sit the other side of Combeferre — another new habit to get used to — and Enjolras sees Grantaire notice the vacant space. He subtly moves to fill it, the plan foiled when Jehan appears from nowhere.

 _Later_ , Enjolras thinks, exchanging a sorry but amused look with Grantaire as he drops into a different seat, simply happy to hear his voice echoing up the table throughout the evening.

\---

It’s just after nine when they reach Grantaire’s bed, the cool static in the air as they’d walked to his apartment broken the moment they’d entered the building, their conversation forgotten, the apartment door chained behind them.

Enjolras breathes a smile when their kiss finally slows, noses still brushing as Grantaire murmurs into the space between them, his gaze soft.

“Hi.”

Enjolras smiles wider. “Hi.”

“Good day?”

“Mm. Even better now,” Enjolras mumbles; Grantaire’s next kiss is slow and sweet, before he scatters more over Enjolras’ neck, trailing across his collarbone. Enjolras’ eyes flutter closed, humming contently, fingers lazily massaging Grantaire’s scalp.

“Tired?” Grantaire asks.

“Mm.”

“That coffee wore off then,” he says, lifting his head to peck Enjolras’ cheek.

“A few hours ago, yeah. Did you enjoy your nap this morning?”

Grantaire laughs a little, the sound moving something in Enjolras’ chest. “Very much so, thank you.”

“Welcome,” Enjolras murmurs, brushing his thumb across this morning’s lovebite before leaning up to press a kiss to it.

Grantaire exhales lightly, hums. “Do you wanna watch something?” he asks quietly. “I’ve got a harddrive full of stuff, if you want.”

Enjolras pulls back to look at him. “R.”

“Yeah?”

He pushes a curl from Grantaire’s face, pressing his thigh a touch more against Grantaire’s hip. “Kiss me.”

Grantaire smiles gently — another movement, Enjolras’ heart soaring. “Okay,” he nods, and he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back in 2015 the original version of this fic was named after Kiss and Not Tell by La Roux, and that reference in this chapter came too naturally to not be used.  
> Just as a heads up, I’ve spent some time properly planning this out and so I can pretty confidently say this will be 23 chapters total, including an epilogue. It feels wild to be talking about the end already but I’d rather let people know now instead of just having it wrap up on short notice.  
> Finally, in case you missed it, I wrote something small from Grantaire’s POV to go with ch17, which you can read [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28793295) — thank you again for all the comments and kudos on both fics!


	19. Chapter 19

The week seems almost endless, but passes in the blink of an eye at the same time, a brief infinity; shared dinners of takeouts or cobbled-together plates of whatever’s in the cupboards, nights spent in alternating apartments, followed by mornings of quiet simplicity.

Thursday morning is hardly different, but for once Grantaire is still asleep when Enjolras wakes, greeted by the sound of the Seine nearby, the cadence of it from this particular spot in Grantaire’s apartment now familiar, the heat of Grantaire’s skin against his more familiar still. Enjolras watches him sleep, transfixed by the easy rhythm of his breathing, and allows himself five minutes, sure that his alarm is due to ring soon and break the peace. 

He eventually shifts and lifts his head to blink the far-off kitchen clock into focus, finding his guess correct — Grantaire rouses with a questioning noise at the movement, and Enjolras presses his lips to his shoulder. 

“Didn’t mean to wake you, sorry,” he whispers.

A noise of acceptance this time, and Grantaire turns his head to search for Enjolras’ lips, eyes still half closed, so Enjolras helps him meet his target, kissing his cheek when they part. 

“I’m gonna get up, shower.”

“Mmph. Do you have to?” Grantaire croaks, and Enjolras smiles at his pout.

“Yeah. Sorry for having office hours.”

“You should be,” he mumbles, sighing contently when Enjolras leaves slow kisses across his skin. “I’ll make you some coffee.”

“No. Stay here. Get some sleep while you can.”

“Mm, angel.” 

“I know.”

Enjolras leaves him with a final kiss, yawning as he sits up and carefully disentangles their legs. He cancels his alarm with a minute to spare, a sense that he’s leaving part of himself behind when he gets up and heads to the bathroom — the previous mornings had been easier, Grantaire rising with him, but at least this way he gets to continue sleeping, Enjolras figures. 

When he returns ten minutes later, he finds Grantaire turned over and shifted to Enjolras’ side of the bed, settled deeply, his face pressed into the pillow. Committing this to memory seems almost pointless now, part of Enjolras thinks — this is his now, and he’ll have it again, countless times, but he memorises it anyway: Grantaire’s curls unruly and askew across his forehead, the light marks of Enjolras’ fingerprints on his back, skin glowing a rich golden brown in the sunlight. 

The smell of coffee is almost certain to wake him, and so Enjolras decides it can be bought on the way, quietly setting to gathering his things and pulling on his clothes. He borrows the first — possibly only — t-shirt he can find that’s free of deeply-ingrained paint stains, and gives the room a final sweep for anything forgotten before gently kneeling on the bed.

“R?”

“Mm?”

“I gotta get to work. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

Grantaire’s brow furrows as he squints up at him. “Tonight?” he asks, then nods and speaks as Enjolras does, “Ferre and Courf, right.”

“Yeah. I’ll text you.”

“M’kay. Fill me in on all the hot goss.”

“Will do,” Enjolras smiles, and leans down to kiss him. “Sleep well.” 

Grantaire replies with a lazy grin, lolling his head back onto the pillow dramatically; Enjolras quietly laughs as he pulls himself away, drinking in the sight for a few more moments before he goes, and ensures the door closes gently on his way out. 

\---

Plans to spend a quiet night with Combeferre and Courfeyrac turn into scheming, as so happens more often than not, with scraps of paper passed back and forth, tossed, thrown, one saved from Courfeyrac’s pyrophilic tendencies by his purposefully-restricted knowledge of where Enjolras keeps the matches. 

Things gradually begin to settle when Combeferre changes the TV channel in the background, and if he finds it strange when Enjolras shifts close to his side, he doesn’t mention it — he simply rests his head against Enjolras’ on his shoulder, and continues stroking Courfeyrac’s hand in his.

\---

Enjolras sprawls out on the bed soon after they leave, whiling away the time by reading, which at some point descends into scrolling through his phone mindlessly, his vision slowly tiring. 

A refresh brings a new post from Grantaire’s private account to the top of his Instagram feed — it’s a mirror photo, taken from afar but zoomed in and slightly blurry, Grantaire’s shirtless form sat beside an easel and canvas. Enjolras hits like on immediate instinct, then realises there’s more, lingering on each one as he flicks through, taking in the details, the shadows that the low lighting casts. 

He’s fixated on a small smudge of paint just visible on Grantaire’s bicep in one photo when a message comes through, and rolls his eyes when he reads it.

R: enjoying the view? x  
E: As always x  
R: flirt x  
E: Hypocrite x  
R: 😘😘😘

Enjolras laughs again and types out a reply, what’s left of his focus now fully on this. It’s not too long until he finds himself beginning to slip, lulled by the remnants of Grantaire’s presence on the sheets, his pillow pulled close, the images of him still clear in Enjolras’ mind.

\---

The next day, Courfeyrac is waiting outside Enjolras’ building when he gets home from work. He rambles on about the particulars from a case as they climb the stairs, but he’s distracted somehow, his full enthusiasm not in it; Enjolras lets him go on for the time it takes to unpack his things to his desk for the weekend, sighing when Courfeyrac offers only a quiet hum in response to a joke. 

“What’s up, Courf?”

“Hm?”

“Something’s wrong.”

“No—” Courfeyrac starts, but sighs and rolls his eyes when Enjolras looks deadpan at him. “Nothing’s _wrong_ , so to speak. Just… Me and Ferre are— Well,” he scrubs his hands over his face and seems to snap out of it, “Okay. So. We wanna do… more. And—”

“More?” Enjolras frowns, and Courfeyrac shoots him a look.

“ _More_ more.”

It takes him a second. “Sex.”

“Sex,” Courfeyrac nods.

“You haven’t yet?” Enjolras had admittedly been unsure, settling on the theory that they had, but for once had decided to keep it to themselves. Apparently not. 

“There’s been some medium to heavy petting,” — Courfeyrac grins when Enjolras pulls a face — “But no, no actual, y’know.”

“Have you spoken to him about it?”

“Yeah. And we both want to, but…”

Enjolras can see how Courfeyrac chews on the inside of his mouth, the way he does when he has a train of thought but can’t quite get himself to finish. “But?” Enjolras offers, sitting beside him. 

“But then— Ugh,” Courfeyrac shakes his head, “But then we’re both too, I don’t know, scared? Nervous? To go anywhere with it. We’ll be getting somewhere and then find a distraction, and I don’t want him to think I don’t want to, you know?” He looks at Enjolras then, a genuine concern in his eyes, the same kind he’d had when fretting about his newfound feelings.

“I doubt he thinks that,” Enjolras says softly. “He hasn’t mentioned anything to me about it, and you’ve told him you want to.”

“Mm. Actions speak louder than words though.”

“Being nervous isn’t an action, it’s a feeling. You’re trying. You’ve just gotta get past it somehow.”

“But how?” Courfeyrac asks, half shrugging, though not entirely hopeless.

“Can you set up a date or something?”

“We do go on dates.”

“No, I don’t mean a date-date. I mean something simple, just to spend time together. An evening at your place— at _his_ place,” Enjolras quickly corrects himself, the plural reminding him of Marius’ existence. “Just have dinner, talk, that sort of thing.”

“‘A good bottle of wine’,” Courfeyrac adds — it’s the closest he’s come to mentioning Enjolras’ so-called date, but it’s also not a question, and so Enjolras chooses to ignore the reference. 

“Maybe not wine in this case, but yes, you get the gist. Nothing big, no pressure and no expectation beforehand. Talk about it again, if you want to, and if things start going somewhere, well, just go with it.”

“Mm. Who made you an expert all of a sudden?”

Enjolras shrugs and plays off the smile that he can’t hide. “I’m full of surprises.”

“Hardly,” Courfeyrac returns the smile, and pulls Enjolras in for a long hug, the coils of his hair soft against Enjolras’ cheek. “This is a weird thing to hug you about,” he mumbles.

“Kinda,” Enjolras laughs, and squeezes his arm when he eventually pulls away. “You’ll be fine. You have more experience with this than most of us.”

“Not really,” Courfeyrac shrugs, following suit and hovering at the bedroom door as Enjolras gets up to pick out a change of clothes. “Dates, yeah, but actually dating? The last person I did this with was in college.”

Enjolras frowns. “What about Jehan?”

“Well, yeah, I love him, and that was fun, but it wasn’t anything serious.”

“You were together for almost all of third year.”

“Yeah, but that wasn’t dating, we were just seeing each other.”

“ _Oh_ , right. Two different things.”

“Okay, sarky,” Courfeyrac quips, “I see Grantaire’s having his effects on you.”

Enjolras pauses tentatively. “What do you mean?”

“You two have been talking a lot lately.” He says it like a statement, but Enjolras can hear the unsurety, the almost-question.

“And?” 

“And nothing. It’s just nice to see. You haven’t exactly been best friends before.”

“We _are_ friends, you know. I’ve always liked him.”

“Liked him how?”

Enjolras turns to Courfeyrac, his expression showing that he knows it’s a risky question to ask directly; Enjolras plays obliviousness, shaking his head a touch with a frown.

“Just… liked him.” 

“Oh.”

“I can’t say I knew that much about him before, but yeah,” Enjolras shrugs and pulls off his t-shirt, quickly redressing — he doesn’t usually care who sees what, but he’s not entirely sure there aren’t marks anywhere he hasn’t noticed. 

“How’d you get to talking?”

“Uh, bumped into him on the way to the Musain like, a couple months ago? It’s nice. He’s— Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm,” Enjolras nods, smiling to himself. 

Courfeyrac shares a brief look with him, hopeful but somehow apologetic. “How come you told him about Adrien? You didn’t even tell Jehan about him.”

“He asked something about relationships, I think?” Enjolras says, trying to think back. “If I actually date people. So I told him.”

“Oh. Has he told you anything about who he’s seeing?” Courfeyrac asks, a sorry tone now in his voice, and— _Ah_. Pity. That’s what it is, Enjolras clicks. 

“I haven’t asked,” he shrugs noncommittally, fussing with his shorts. “Someone from uni though, isn’t it?”

“Mm, that’s all we got out of him. I thought there may be someone new following his private Instagram with those thirst traps he posted last night, but I couldn’t find anything, so that’s a dead end.”

Enjolras shoots him an incredulous look. “You check that?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Courfeyrac scoffs obviously, “Not constantly or anything, but these are exceptional circumstances. He rarely does the one night stand thing nowadays, and for all his flirting he doesn’t ever _do_ much about it. There’s something going on. I don’t know,” he shakes his head thoughtfully, “Whoever he is, there’s—”

“‘He’?” Enjolras interrupts, far too quickly, and Courfeyrac’s look turns curious. 

“Yeah. Tell me you’re not that dense and you know R’s bi, right?”

“Of course I know that, I meant how do you know they're ‘he’?”

“Oh. He told Bossuet. Well, kinda. Bossuet said it sounded like he slipped up when he said it, so. Not exactly confirmed, and doesn’t mean ‘he’ is a guy but yeah. He.”

“Oh.”

There’s a pause as Courfeyrac watches him for a moment. “You okay?”

“Yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac huffs lightly, “Why wouldn’t you be.”

Enjolras ignores the utterance, silently relieved that the rouse worked, and reaches to pull on his shoes, but is startled out of the task by—

“ _Shit_ , what the hell is _that_?”

\---

“Joly, baby, you have _got_ to see this,” Courfeyrac announces the second they walk into the Corinthe, grabbing Enjolras’ wrist in one of his death grips and dragging him to the bar.

Joly, Feuilly and Grantaire all turn with varying expressions of delight and confusion, the exclamation having drawn the attention of everyone else in the room too.

“What are you _doing_?” Enjolras protests, but doesn’t manage to wrangle himself free in time. 

“Show him your bruise,” Courfeyrac gestures as he releases him — Grantaire’s eyes dart to him, while Joly frowns with worry as he puts his drink down, swallowing his mouthful quickly as he rushes to speak. 

“Bruise?”

“It’s nothing, it was just an acci—” Enjolras starts, but Courfeyrac reaches for the leg of his shorts, pulling it up a touch before Enjolras can pull away, but it’s enough of a glance for Joly’s eyes to widen.

“No, no, not nothing,” Joly shakes his head hurriedly, “Can I?” he points.

Enjolras sighs but nods, well aware that there’s no point in resisting. Joly stands and maneuvers him to perch on his stool instead, methodical as he rolls Enjolras’ shorts up to reveal the full extent of the bruising; the colours had gradually changed over the week, the reds blending into purples and just now tinging green, the remaining darkness gnarled and misshapen. 

Joly begins some form of inspection, his fingers as light as always whenever he’s scrutinising one of their injuries, brow furrowed but gentle. “Is this a kick?” he asks, visibly confused. “What happened?”

“It was just at work,” Enjolras repeats the vague lie he’d detailed to Courfeyrac, “It was an accident, it’s fine.”

“How do you get kicked in an office?” Feuilly frowns.

“We were trialling some physical game someone wanted to use in a workshop.”

“Did it get the go-ahead?” Joly looks up at him, concerned.

“Absolutely not.”

“Good.”

It’s an old truth: Enjolras had once been kicked in that exact situation, months ago, the smaller bruise on his shin covered and unnoticed during winter, the story untold.

“When was this?” Joly asks. 

“About a week ago?”

He cocks his head. “It’s still kinda dark.”

“I bruise easy.”

“Mm, true,” Joly nods to himself, though not fully satisfied with that answer, it seems. “Are you sure you don’t want me to take a closer look at this?”

Enjolras rolls his shorts back down as he shakes his head. “I’m fine, honestly. But thank you.”

He can tell Joly holds his tongue from pressing further, and concedes when Enjolras stands to offer his seat back. “Okay, well, just let me know if you change your mind.”

“I will,” he smiles reassuringly, and leans into the half hug Joly gives him. 

“So, any medical inspections required for you today, Courf?” Feuilly asks, “Get kicked in court or anything?”

Courfeyrac clicks his tongue. “Nah. Maybe next week though. What’s all this?” he nods at the range of brightly-coloured drinks the three of them are sporting.

“Mocktail testing,” Musichetta explains as she zips past behind the bar, “They’re my little lab rats.”

“Very willing lab rats,” Feuilly points, and she throws him a smile.

“Wanna try one?” she asks, and Courfeyrac agrees enthusiastically. “Which one?”

“Surprise me.”

“Sure thing. Enjolras, do you want one?”

Enjolras looks between the three in an attempt to decipher flavours from colours, most intrigued by Grantaire’s; Grantaire silently holds his glass out when he looks at it, and Enjolras sips from the straw without hesitation.

“Mm— Can I get this one?”

“Good?”

“Mhm,” he nods, holding Grantaire’s glass in place to steal the final mouthful from it. 

“I guess I’ll get a refill too, please,” Grantaire rolls his eyes, plucking the paper umbrella from the glass before sliding it across the bar. He reaches up to thread it through Enjolras’ hair tie, and Enjolras turns his head to allow him better access. 

Courfeyrac’s face is a picture of sheer bewilderment when Enjolras catches his eye, and he struggles to look away as he addresses Musichetta. “Uh, one for Ferre too, please. He’s on his way.”

It takes a moment for everyone to recover, the confusion visibly shared even though nothing is said. There’s a giddy thrill to it, and Enjolras takes the umbrella from his own drink and laces it into Grantaire’s hair as they all head outside — Grantaire turns to him with a wide grin and a wink, and Enjolras has to suppress the laugh bubbling in his chest. 

Courfeyrac frowns incredulously when he notices the addition and opens his mouth to speak, but is interrupted by the array of greetings and goodbyes upon Combeferre’s arrival and Joly’s departure for the nightshift. 

“What’s going on here?” Combeferre asks, gesturing vaguely to the table once things are settled.

“I could ask the same,” Courfeyrac remarks, and throws Enjolras a look. “Chetta’s testing mocktails. We got you one.”

“Oh, great, thank you,” Combeferre smiles, sitting down, and Courfeyrac pulls him into a kiss.

Enjolras looks away and tries not to let his gaze turn to Grantaire, but quickly fails, as Grantaire fills the silence by pulling a deliberately obnoxious sip from his straw. Combeferre smiles ruefully when they break apart, the self-satisfied grin wiped off Grantaire’s face when Courfeyrac turns and smacks his arm.

“Are you doing anything tomorrow?” Courfeyrac asks, looking back at Combeferre as he sorts his things. 

“Some tutoring in the morning, but otherwise no. Why, what’s up?”

“Do you wanna do something? In the evening, I mean.”

“Just us or?” Combeferre glances at Enjolras, Feuilly and Grantaire, who exchange a quick knowing look.

“Just us,” Courfeyrac confirms, and Combeferre smiles again.

“Sure,” he nods.

“Cool. Awesome.”

“Amazing,” Grantaire adds in English, and Courfeyrac picks up the thread immediately. 

“Show-stopping.”

“Spectacular.”

“Never the same—”

“ _So_ , what are you up to this weekend?” Combeferre interrupts them, smiling fondly. 

“Rel’s club’s having a social so I’m tagging along — you coming, R?” Feuilly asks. 

“Uh, I’m gonna skip this one, sorry.”

“How come?”

“Might have plans,” Grantaire shrugs nonchalantly. 

“‘ _Plans_ ’,” Courfeyrac repeats, rolling the word around in his mouth lavishly. “We all saw your thirst traps last night, lover boy. Don't try to fool us with your vague ‘plans’.”

Grantaire’s face lights up with a smug glee that he tries to reign in, but only half succeeds. “I was feeling myself.”

“Yeah but who else is feeling you?” Feuilly grins; Enjolras is startled into a laugh — safe enough, he reckons — while Grantaire simply winks and takes another drink.

“Very good question,” — Courfeyrac points at Feuilly before turning it to Grantaire, eyebrows raised — “Guy? Girl? Person?”

“Person,” Grantaire confirms, “I think he’s free, so yeah. Plans.”

“Person and ‘he’,” Courfeyrac nods. “So we’re allowed to know that at least?”

“Bossuet already told you.”

“I protect my sources—”

Someone’s foot knocks Enjolras’ under the table, pulling him from his quiet amusement at the scene before them as he glances to check he’s not overstepping. There’s a second more deliberate knock as he looks away, though this time he sees that Feuilly is the source — Enjolras looks at him, but Feuilly’s expression is inscrutable as he quickly glances at Grantaire and back.

Enjolras frowns and shakes his head questioningly, but Feuilly only rolls his eyes in response, a “never mind”. It’s left at that as Bossuet arrives — openly admitting his culpability — then forgotten as the conversation turns again, and the evening goes on. 

\---

Enjolras’ hand finds Grantaire’s at some point on the journey home, the smile that touches Grantaire’s lips not worn off by the time they get to Enjolras’ building, where Grantaire uses the hold on him to pull him into a kiss. Enjolras pulls him closer as he lets them inside, the situation familiar, though the sense of longing is different, and he pauses their trajectory through the hallway to relish in the moment.

“I missed you,” he breathes into the space between them, a hot flash of panic before Grantaire replies.

“I missed you too.”

“Not too much?”

“Definitely not too much,” Grantaire says, another smile in his eye as he begins backing them to the stairs, though Enjolras only relinquishes his hold on him after another kiss. “Nice deflection on the bruise.”

“Thank you. Do you think that was okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“Were we too, I don’t know… obvious?”

“‘ _We_ ’? You were the one getting familiar.”

“Yeah, and you started this,” Enjolras flicks one of the umbrellas in Grantaire’s hair: Grantaire had added a second to the tie of Enjolras’ ponytail and a third tucked behind his ear, while he and Bossuet had continued adding more to Grantaire’s curls throughout the night. 

“Couldn’t help it,” Grantaire grins dopily, snaking his arms around Enjolras’ waist as he locks the door, then pecks his cheek. “Gorgeous.”

Enjolras grins and kisses him for that, but breaks it by half yelping, half laughing when Grantaire’s hands move to his thighs to pick him up. Grantaire’s slightly shorter stature is more obvious like this, even more so when he sits with Enjolras straddling his lap on the couch, his hands strong and secure as they roam.

“Do you fancy a date tomorrow?” he murmurs into a kiss, and Enjolras pauses. 

“You know we’re already dating, don’t you?”

“I do, yes,” Grantaire shoots him an obvious look, “I just figured, y’know, everyone else seems to be doing date night. We could have a proper date.”

Enjolras smiles a touch. “Like what?”

Grantaire shrugs, an attempt to look nonchalant, as though he hasn’t already thought about this. “Dinner at my place?”

“Sure.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras nods, a quiet joy coursing through him, reflected in Grantaire’s face.

“Great. Call it our one week anniversary.”

“Mm. An important milestone.”

“Truly,” Grantaire matches Enjolras’ sarcasm, smiling as Enjolras leans down to meet his lips. 

He wraps his arms tighter around Enjolras, twisting to lie flat as he pulls them both down sideways, the smoothness of the action overridden by his own groan.

“Ow, _fuck_ —”

“Umbrellas?” Enjolras asks, and Grantaire nods with a wince; he props himself back up as Enjolras rolls his eyes, sets to helping him remove them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news, I finally figured out how to do em dashes on my keyboard, so I went back and changed every single dash in the entire fic that needed correction — it’s a labour of love, after all.  
> Pandemic anxiety finally got to me and has been kicking my ass this year, but writing this is still a light amongst it all, even when I’m facing block, so thank you a hundred times again for sticking around and reading, kudosing and commenting. Love as always!


End file.
